Vanilla

Six

"Fine," I produced a five-dollar note, unable to meet his gaze. "Cold it is. Please."

The transaction following this was surprisingly ordinary; I was handed several coins in return and given a circular device that beeped once my order was ready for collection. All I had to do now was wait and calculate the probability that I'd entered the same school as the only childhood friend I had and dropped by his (assumingly) part-time workplace after school. Well. I do recall encouraging his passion for cooking back then, but who would be in the right mind to listen to a four-year-old child's circular argument? And does being a chef necessitate enrolling in an internationally-renowned culinary school? No. Does he even remember—

"Iced café latte for Vanilla?" What! I felt the heat rise to my cheeks and spread to the back of my neck. Weren't you supposed to call your customers by buzzing them over? What use is this circular device if you end up announcing their name to the entire store? And—god, I can't believe he wrote my first name on the cup like that.

The staff member on duty at the collection area had placed my clear plastic cup of coffee on a nice little tray, complete with a complementary cookie on top of a napkin. I could tell she was about to call my name a second time so I quickly handed over the service pager, collected my tray and slipped into the shadows.

I registered a slight tremble in my fingers from the remnants of adrenaline in my veins only after settling down at the second floor in peace. There was no mirror to check just how red my face was, but I certainly hoped it didn't resemble a strawberry or I'd have to hide this wretched thing for the rest of my life.

*

With a sting of energy and a creamy denseness, the store's café latte leaves a surprisingly light and smooth aftertaste without overpowering the bitterness of a full-bodied espresso. In fact, it might be one of the best café lattes I've ever had. The hint of sweetened condensed milk adds a different layer of...

Thirty minutes and half a cup of café latte later, I was still stuck at the very same paragraph; very same sentence I'd crafted moments before and struggling to reconcile my rampant biases and terribly-organized thoughts of the staff downstairs and the drink in my hand. I sipped it again, tasting the bitter sting and wondering if he was the one who made it. While descriptive paragraphs were no doubt my forte, I'd taken every couple of seconds to pause and think about the accuracy of my current taste given the hole in my tongue. W-well, not exactly a hole but you get what I mean.

I'd deleted a word and replaced it with another only to delete and re-replace it with the same one before when I heard someone coming up the stairs. Their footsteps were careful but heavy, so I assumed they were carrying something and perhaps required some form of help. Leaving my seat, I shuffled towards the stairs for a closer look. Ah, a staff apron. She's the one at the collection area from before.

The girl took one look at me and beamed. "Oh hi! Are you 'the boy with glasses on the second floor'? I'm assuming you are because you're the only one up here anyway," she laughed. "Leroy said to give this to you." A tray with a regular-sized ice-cream cup on top balanced on the tips of her five fingers.

In a flurry of panic, I refused at once. "On what grounds? I can't just accept this—"

She shrugged, passing me to place the cup of ice-cream by my laptop. "He didn't say. I mean, he doesn't say much all the time anyway. Actually, this is kind of the first time he's talking to me."

"U-um, I..." The harmless cup of ice-cream stared up at me in an attempt to crumble my resolve. "Did he say what flavour it was?"

"Oh it's vanilla," she followed my gaze. "Our bestseller."