Kit And The Art Of Thieving (On Hold)

the bitchy barista strikes back

It was on a particularly blustery Wednesday morning--about a week after the photoshoot with Oz and the subsequent hangover from some ill-concieved Tartarus--that Kit finally decided it was time to bite the bullet and return to what he had affectionately dubbed Brimstone and Hell Leaves. Aka the only cafe open earlier than seven A.M. on campus. Now, why he'd thought this was a grand idea when he had perfectly good instant coffee sitting under the bed of his dorm probably had a lot to do with the fact that he was really fucking tired and wanted something that didn't taste like ass for once in his miserable college life. The struggle was real. (And the desperation was realer. He needed a caramel macchiato now.)

That being said, he couldn't quite shake the feeling of dread he felt when the bell dinged? dung? dunged? above his head as he ducked into the cafe. And no it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he'd kinda sorta stolen a couple of biscotti from, ahem, Brimstone and Hell Leaves--patent-pending thank you--last time and entirely to do with the bitchy barista that typically stood behind the counter.

Dude had been a complete uncultured swine. Seriously. Who couldn't tell the difference between a brontosaurus and a penis? Dick was still offended. Kit could tell. It was all in the wrinkles see. They'd been extra wrinkly lately.

So, as Kit crossed the threshold into B.A.H.L, rubbing his hands together to ward off that early morning Cali chill, he felt a bit like he was jumping into his own funeral pyre...or maybe just sending a letter during the night shift in Animal Crossing. You know through that one really bitchy purple pelican? Or duck? Or whatever the hell kinda bird she was. Either way, the gal was mean, and always came with the most irritated sounding background music. Kit in equal parts dreaded and looked forward to sending mail after six P.M. Fuck it if that made him weird. Kit owned that shit.

Inside, B.A.H.L looked more or less the same. This time, though, there was a distinct lack of pumpkins and a decided increase in cheesy plastic turkeys wearing pilgrim's hats. Cornucopias lined the counter, bracketing a festively garlanded register, but the air still blessedly smelled of coffee and the flooring still made Kit think of a bad 50's diner replica. Oh. Kit grinned.

And the bitchy barista was behind the counter, oblivious with his head buried in a book and still clearly the crown jewel of the joint.

"Sup," Kit said, like a douche.

The bitchy barista looked up from the textbook he'd been reading from, one of his stocky fingers trailing behind the words on the page. His eyes widened.

"Oh no," the bitchy barista--Demo, Kit remembered ie read off his name tag--grumbled. About five different emotions flickered across Demo's face in about as many seconds, surpringly dexterous hands quickly flipping his textbook shut, a lone pencil acting as a bookmark as he straightened from his slouch.

Apathy. Surprise. A sort of why-me-lord-why look. Irritation. And finally, the crème de la résistance, acceptance. "You're back," he grunted, arms crossed over his chest like a particularly pissed off child. Gosh. Demo was smol. The bushy caterpillars he called eyebrows just made him smol..er. It was adorable. Kit's grin widened. (He probably looked at least somewhat deranged at this point, whoops). 

"What can I say," he shrugged, swaggering over to the register and leaning his hip against it, "I just couldn't stay away. The service was great last time and well...your eyebrow game is impeccable."