“So, um, you kissed me. Again.” It just kind of popped out, and I felt my face heat in that way that I knew didn’t actually look like I was blushing, but made my heart beat fast and my ears buzz with nerves. “In the dressing room,” I added stupidly.
His gaze shot to mine, his eyes burning, then slid down to my mouth, and I felt it like a caress. For a moment it seemed like he might respond. Like we might talk things through, instead of continuing this strange dance. But then he blinked and shot me a wink before turning back to the computer.
“You kissed me, kiddo.”
“SO, YOU have no experience working as a barista at all, you can only work on the weekends and when you’re not in class, and you’ve never heard of latte art. Why should I hire you when every third person in line to buy a cappuccino is probably more qualified?”
I’d ducked into Mug Shots on a whim when I saw the HIRING sign. I needed a job badly if I was going to have a prayer of being able to do anything in this city besides study, and, well, the state of my shoes was getting pretty dire.
The manager on duty was named Layne. Her dark jeans hung low and her white T-shirt and red-and-brown flannel were spattered with coffee and foam around the edges of a too-long apron. Her brown hair was cut short, her cheeks permanently flushed, and behind thick, nerdy-chic glasses her blue eyes were squinty and shrewd.
She was right. I was woefully unqualified for the job. And yet, it didn’t feel like she was shutting me down, exactly. More like she was asking it as a genuine question. And maybe was a little bit amused.
Anyway, she seemed so cheery, despite the chaos going on around her, and the stickers slapped onto her thermos said “Earth First!” and “Queer Rock Camp” and “NYQueer,” so I couldn’t bring myself to bullshit her.
“Oh gosh, you probably shouldn’t, if they’re way more qualified,” I said. “But—okay, things in favor of hiring me anyway?” I ticked them off on my fingers. “I’m super dependable. Maybe I can only work on specific days, but I’ll never call in and leave you searching for someone to take my place. And next semester I could schedule my classes so I’m more flexible. I’m pretty friendly and people usually like me, so I’d be good with, like, grumpy, pre-caffeinated people. What else? Oh, well, I’m smart, I promise. That sounds obnoxious, probably, but I mean that once you show me how to do stuff I’ll have it. You won’t have to tell me twice. And… well, I really need the money, honestly. So I won’t do anything to get me fired.”
I leaned in and lowered my voice. “Also, um, I’m gay, if, like, that helps?”
The look she gave me made it immediately clear that this was a miscalculation on my part. But just as she opened her mouth to respond, there was a crash, a splat, and a very inappropriate-for-the-workplace slew of swear words from the front of the line. The customer seemed to have somehow spilled the entire tray of coffee drinks he’d been handed, and half of them ended up on the counter and the girl ringing him up—hence the swearing. She was totally drenched in what smelled like a combination of coffee and hot chocolate, and the counter was swimming in sad islands of melting whipped cream.
Layne narrowed her eyes and sighed.
“What are you doing right now?”
“Nothing,” I said.
She nodded once, resigned, but I swear there was a damn sparkle in her eye like she was enjoying this. “Up for a trial by fire?”
“Um, what?”
Which is how I found myself hastily aproned and stationed behind the huge, gleaming machine that loomed like the obelisk in 2001: A Space Odyssey and would determine my future. After about ten minutes, when it became painfully clear to the other guy stationed at the machine that I had absolutely no clue what the difference was between an Americano, a macchiato, and a latte, to say nothing of how to make them, I was switched to taking orders.
Three hectic hours later, Layne called me over.
“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, “you definitely don’t know anything about coffee.”
“No,” I said.
“But you’re perky and polite, which shocks people in this industry.” She cocked her head, seeming to consider me.
“Look,” I said, “sorry about before when I said the thing about being gay. That was like maybe inappropriate? I dunno, I just meant—I was trying to say that—I didn’t mean to assume—I just thought you might like me more if—or be more likely to—um, but maybe that’s accusing you of some kind of, uh….”
“You’re not really helping yourself here.”
“Sorry.”
She shook her head. “Even if I did happen to be politically committed to providing jobs for queers, some pretty boy cis white dude wouldn’t be at the top of my list.”