Never Enough Time

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“Nothing else?”
Lin snapped out of her reverie. “What did I say?”
“Black coffee,” said the freckled barista, his red, spiked quiff dark at the roots.
“Yes, that's all.”
“Sweet lips, you look like a latte girl; I can't give black coffee to a latte girl.”
Thenceforth, it wasn't just his familiar, poor dye job that bothered her.
“It's the 2020's, not the time and place to assume and conclude a person's preferences and personality based on their appearance, O'Connor—oh wait, you're not Irish.” She snatched the barista's notepad and wrote black coffee in bold. “This is where you say, ‘You're welcome; that's two dollars.’”
“You're welcome? Thanks, sweet lips; I don't know the first thing about this job.” He turned away, then back. “Can I get your name? I would hate to assume that, too.”
Karen, she contemplated telling him. Half the school called her that behind her back anyway.
“Joelliane. It's long for just Lin.”
“Lovely, lovely Lin.” Then he walked away to the coffee machine.
Her cheeks burned from eight hours and sixteen minutes of pent-up aggression—and there would be more to come, given the stack of tests in her violet messenger bag.
Observing the barista was taking longer than anticipated, she shifted her gaze to the nearest unoccupied table. I could get a head start. I might not need the coffee if I do.
But just when she set her bag down on the middle of the table…
“Latteless black coffees for Lovely Lin.”
Eyes pricked her back. The barista, whose brown eyes met hers unabashedly, held up two coffees.
She snatched one Styrofoam cup from him. “I asked for one, and I'm paying for one.”
“I'm paying for my actions, so don't bother. Besides, you need two, since you need to burn that midnight oil.” The barista laughed at his pun. “Have a nice night, Lovely Lin.”
His infectious laugh forced a smile out of her—or was it the brief touch they shared when she took the other coffee?
Her smile didn't last a second longer than when she saw her messenger bag on the table.
Somehow, she walked the next ten minutes home without fainting from mind-numbing irritation or throwing the coffees in the Dumpster.
Unable to knock, she kicked the door to her unit of the two-storey apartment, praying her roommate was around. Bethany didn't come, even after ten kicks, and she suspected her neighbors would complain soon.
Just put them on the floor; they're not gold.
In one key turn, she was inside.
She swooned into her grey couch, battling with heavy eyes until a paper's crinkle from under the throw pillow drew her attention.
Sister's sick, Bethany scrawled. Uptown for the meantime.
She looked around for juvenile eyes, like she would find any. “Ass.”
Bethany's absence would make her feel emptier than ever. With her profession and relationship status, she needed people around her. She certainly needed someone to grade papers with her if she hoped to sleep before ten o'clock.
It was then she recalled the coffees beyond her threshold. Perhaps the barista wasn't wrong; she needed two to burn the midnight oil.
She chuckled. “Bee, check what I hea…”
Her voice died in her throat as she turned. The only trace of Bethany was the legal pad note.
In three minutes, she organized the coffee table for the sake of the tests. Left for ungraded, right for done, and the middle for in progress. The coffees—one cup only half full as at then—were placed next to her scrunchie, which was under the table.
Six scripts in, her eyes danced with dates and dashes. What was World History good for?
She could almost see one of her own eighth-grade Social Studies test sixteen years ago. Although she couldn't recall faces and names, the teacher was a man patrolling for cheaters. He had red hair, dark at the roots…
Lin bit her lolling tongue, booting her brain. Her first thought was, given the circumstances, Coffee.
The barista had been right; she was a latte girl. Three years ago, before she was known officially as Ms. Cook and in gossip as That Karen From Class Eight A, she was a latte girl, a martini girl, a swearing girl. She had high hopes for her upcoming bachelor's degree in Education…
Lovely Lin, the Louisiana Purchase purchased land from France, not—
“Coffee!” she thought aloud.
Half the next cup was gone, yet Lin was a mere halfway through the theoretical tests. Reading answers took a lot of brainpower. Maybe she needed corresponding brain food.
Lin lifted herself lethargically, then made for the fridge. It was half of her five-foot four, despite her and Bethany's pooled funds to get it. Not that they needed the extra space. If anything, three feet was too tall for tuna casserole, a week's worth of foodstuff, and three cartons of almond milk.
The tuna salad was cold despite a minute in the microwave. She didn't think she could risk another minute; it could end up being too much.
With her last gulps of strong, bitter coffee, she had a tuna salad sandwich. She considered adding almond milk to the beverage, but she wasn't a latte girl now.
Latte girl, lactose intolerant Bethany, too much, movie night with Bethany, never enough, The Greatest Shwoman, never enough money, too many bills, too many papers, twenty-nine students…
Twenty-nine. In nine days, she would be thirty. She would do something wild like—like lattes, or dyeing her hair lavender. Lavender for Lin—
The boots in the kitchen sounded far off. Was she hearing Bethany from uptown?
“Bee,” she mumbled. “Bzz, bzz.”
Unfamiliar arms lifted her as she cascaded into unconsciousness.