This Crazy Rich Boy

As Claire stomps back towards Starbucks, she could not believe anyone would really be so anal as to drink only coffee according to the specifications, "grande, quad, nonfat, one-pump, no-whip mocha." How crazy is that? It's just coffee. Personally, she'd like her coffee without all these distractions, these dilutions. But what does she know? Mr. Tan obviously is set in his ways.

"Oh, Miss Just Black!" the barista cheerfully greets her. He's of Claire's age as well, and seems to enjoy his job. "You're back so soon!"

"I, uhh, yeah," she mutters, peering at the little note in her hand. "I, uhh, need coffee with these specifications. Can you make it?"

The barista's brow knits as he reads the note, but his eyes soon widen in recognition. "Hey, are you working for Gabriel Tan?"

"How did you know?"

"This is his favorite! He won't take any other coffee except this one."

So that's why he was so furious, Claire thinks. She must have touched a raw nerve by not following his directions. But he never gave any in the first place! "So can you brew that?"

"Absolutely! Give me just a sec!" The barista smiles. "So this is for 'Just Claire'?"

Claire laughs. "Yeah, just Claire."

Claire waits and quietly watches the barista do his thing. The name plate on his ċhėst says his name is Brad, and he'd be happy to create magic for you. Oh, these service mantras, they're all gimmickry. But maybe it works, because if not, then nobody would be doing it anymore. For some reason, Brad keeps on glancing at her, as though checking if she's still there. She smiles occasionally, which he answers with his own smile. He's kinda cute, Claire thinks, than banishes the thought. What is it with you Claire? Desiring random strangers now?

"We're no strangers anymore, are we?" Brad says as he hands her the coffee, as if he has just read her mind.

"Well, uhh, sure."

"Say, if you need anything, just call me up. I mean, the store. Call Starbucks. We'd be happy to make you magic."

She's gotta laugh at that one. "Sure."

As she steps out into the sun, she turns back and sees him still looking at her, before another lady customer hijacked his attention.

It's thirty minutes of trooping under the sun back to the office. She grinds her teeth as she tries to ignore her aching feet. Damn this new boss, that Mrs. Gomez! They couldn't even give her cab fare! Says it's part of the deal or something. She wonders, quite bitterly, if she could still make it the next day. Her mental calculations let her arrive at a tricky conclusion: the Room Mate situation notwithstanding, she's looking at a few weeks of utter despair.

When the elevator dings open, Mrs. Gomez doesn't even acknowledge her presence. There's also something weird about her: she's no longer high-strung, as if she'd just stepped out of a spa. Mrs. Gomez's face is so relaxed, so calm, so full of inner peace.

"He's out of the office," Mrs. Gomez says, matter-of-factly.

"What?" Claire could not believe it. All that drama, all that hard work, that walking in the hot sun—all that for nothing? "What about his coffee? What about his grande quad whipping boy fatty pump mochachinosoy coffee latte?"

Mrs. Gomez stares at the coffee Claire holds aloft. She shrugs.

"What do I do with this?"

"I don't know," Mrs. Gomez says. "Drink it. Should calm you down."

You people are the ones who should calm down, Claire thinks. For a moment, she thinks of doing what Mr. Tan did an hour ago: Smash this grande against the immaculate white wall. Or something.

But she's not Gabriel Tan. She's just a lowly, miserable Claire Monteverde, who must go home tonight to an apartment she shares with three other girls who do not know how to respect boundaries.

And that's what she does: Claire walks home. It's just five blocks away, anyway. What's another round of walkathon to cap the day?