First Sip

The rotten, putrid smells of roasted arabica beans invade my nose without my consent. Attitude-laden customers pay for their over-priced cups of brown liquid, clinging desperately to that first sip feeling. Others sit and pound on keyboards while dressed in the latest designer fashions. Everything about the place hurts my head, almost like someone smashes it with a sledgehammer.

Every day, I am forced to trudge to work past the establishment. Before I even see the massive glass windows adorned with that smiling bean-shaped insignia, the smell assaults me first. The closer I get to the open doors, the heavier the air becomes with the repulsive scent. When I look inside and see the exultant expression on the faces of all who patronize the store, disgust billows out of me, and I want to scream, but I maintain the steady click-clack of my feet on the pavement.

Now, I believe I’m at my wit’s end. Wood from the chair seems to dig into my back, just as another severs shoots me a questioning look. They all must be wondering why I am in here, like an invading army calling for a ceasefire to have a cup of tea. However, I am not here for refreshments. The very idea of drinking whatever they have to serve is repulsive.

My bag continues to squeal from its place on the table. The rodent inside is getting impatient and wants to proceed with our plan. So, why is it so hard to execute the culmination of countless hours of thought? 

Outside, the shadows have steadily grown more prominent as the daylight retreats. Soon, it will be too late to perform what I came here to do. It would be so simple. A few commands from my mind, telling my muscles in which order to move, and the bag would be open. The rat would then cause a riot and ruin their reputation forever. An establishment like this lives off its name, and having a rat run through its ranks would give me the bliss of a peaceful commute, which I have been craving.

Palpable tension fills the air, as I am certain the employees can sense what I am about to do and are terrified. Once I unleash my plans to their fullest extent, life as they know it will be over forever.

“Excuse me?” A soft voice snaps me out of the state of deep reflection I was in. When I turn my head to the side, a woman stands before me. Long blonde hair that is listlessly tied back frames her bright blue eyes. She wears a sweet, practiced smile, which she has probably used hundreds of times but invokes within me a strange feeling.

I shake my head and glare at her. “What do you want?” I say, barely trying to conceal my contempt.

If she is shaken by this, she doesn’t let it show. 

“Well, we are closing soon, and I noticed you sitting here all alone… So, I made you a drink. I hope you like lattes.”

She holds a large ceramic mug with lines of steam rising out of it in her hand. The immediate vicinity of the beverage makes me want to flee the building and disregard the whole plan. Although, for some reason, I am compelled to accept the woman’s kind gesture. 

I force a smile onto my face and attempt to lighten my features. “Well, thank you.” That is all I can say as I nod toward her and take the drink from her slightly shaking hands. Her face has turned flush, and she can’t maintain eye contact for more than a couple seconds. Without another word, she gives a respectful nod, and I am once again left to my solitude. 

Never before have I seen a latte. Now that one sits in front of me, I’m terrified. The only company present are the rat, which scratches feverishly inside the bag, and the latte, which rests carefully on a tiny plate.

Minutes, which seem like hours, pass by as I debate what to do with the drink before me. To leave it would be rude. To drink it would be to contradict my identity. All the while, the smell infiltrates my nostrils with every breath I take.

Whether it be from the store's heat or the anxiety building deep inside me, sweat accumulates on my forehead.

Ba-Dum…Ba-Dum…Ba-Dum…Ba-Dum

I scan the interior of the building to see if anyone can hear my heart racing. Surely, I must be the center of everyone’s attention. Only a few scattered people are on the premises, and a few more filter in and out; none seem to be paying me any attention.

From behind the counter, however, I see the petite, blonde-haired server who gave me the drink, looking onward hopefully, almost expectant. There is no malice in her eyes, only a sense of naive happiness. Her lips quirk up into a smile as she notices me staring.

What could her motives be? She must know that I am averse to everything her beloved corporation represents. So, why does she seem insistent on forcing this drink down my gullet?

I must leave before it is too late! My brain commands my body to escape, but it doesn’t listen. My hand reaches up toward the curved handle and brings the cup to my lips. As my entire being retches, I take a sip of the latte and put the cup back on the table.

For a moment, the world is silent. Noises from those around me, the stress I carry with me about work and life, and the uneasiness of daily life fade away.

The chair flies back as I jump to my feet. I cast a glaring look at the server, which forced me to drink the beverage, before grabbing my bag and running out of the building.

#

The familiar scent of those roasted beans, along with smells of cinnamon, sweetness, and that frothed milk, haunt me for days after the incident. 

My sleep is sporadic and restless. Images of that cursed place and awful drink plague my mind like a never-ending nightmare. Thoughts of going back there and finishing what I started call out to me. 

The worst part of the whole situation is that I actually enjoyed the drink…

#

I stand at the front of a long, misshapen line full of impatient patrons. A blond, blue-eyed woman asks me what I want, but I can barely hear her over the ringing in my ears. Then, a single word falls out of my mouth.

“Latte…” Money hits the counter, and I shuffle over to the side, one peon among many. 

After an unknown amount of time, I have the drink clasped between my hands. The warmth is inviting while, at the same time, a cautionary tale. A familiar chair beckons for me, and I answer.

Once the cup is empty and my pride is smashed, I return the cup and exit the building. A faint “See you tomorrow” is called out as I leave the building. Without looking back, I know who said it, that blonde-haired, blue-eyed seductress. Her weapon of choice is potent, and the results speak for themselves. Perhaps tomorrow will be different, though.