Dial Tones
two
“I mean, there are a ton of people that don't like coffee,” Teresa muttered from across the shop, where she had been wiping down a table, and looked over at me, “it's just that not many of them work in coffee shops, you know what I mean?”
She had been hung up on the idea that I didn't like coffee for a few days, and, it seemed to me, had meditated on it for awhile before reporting back to me with her diagnosis the next Monday morning. The conversation I had with him had opened the eyes of my two coworkers to the fact that I might just not like the drink that I prepared daily; Anthony could care less, thank God, and Steven—having been told by Teresa about it during one of their shifts together—was only amused by it, moved to silent laughter whenever I started making an iced coffee for somebody. There was nothing I could do about it, either, which was the only thing that bothered me; I would always hate coffee, and they would always know it.
He hadn't shown up in the shop since that day, for which I was also thankful. “I didn't decide to work here because I was just passionate about coffee, okay? I needed a job; Beans was hiring. No brainer, right there.” I gave her knowing look, which she responded to with a loud snort, and I rolled my eyes. “Besides, that guy was, like, totally obnoxious—he just started going off about random stuff and asked me what I recommended. I have no idea what I recommend!”
“Whatever we're trying to get rid of,” Dean muttered as he drifted past me, a mug full of coffee in his hand. He had the tendency to float around the shop whenever he felt like it, grabbing a coffee or bagel before he disappeared into his office for a few more hours. “Which, at the moment, is the chocolate chip scones. Tell people about them; they're getting stale.”
That was Dean in a nutshell, or rather, Beans in a nutshell. Despite the fact that it was one of the best coffee houses in Seattle—purely opinion, though it was the opinion of half the college students in said city—Dean was notoriously cheap. His excuse was that he didn't like seeing food go to waste, but that was old and overused.
“You're too easy to read,” Teresa muttered, coming back toward the counter, “that's your problem. Anyone walking down the street can read you like an open book. And you sort of look like the kind of person—”
“That wouldn't like coffee?” I scoffed, and she nodded enthusiastically.
“I'm completely serious! From afar, I would pin you as a hot chocolate person. But, then, you aren't really fond of chocolate, are you? So it's down to, what, tea and water?” She smiled, seemingly proud of her diagnosis, and wandered away with a tray full of dirty mugs and plates.
I had just managed to reassure myself that Teresa was full of it when the door opened with a loud, obnoxious squeak—and he walked in, the sound of pouring rain coming in the door behind him. This time he was alone, and his jacket was practically soaked through, his hair matted against his forehead. “Hey!” He greeted, as if we had known each other for years, and ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, is it raining. How's it going?”
“Fine,” I murmured and pushed off of the counter I had been sitting on, straightening the visor we were supposed to wear. “What can I get for you today?”
“Dunno,” he shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and groaned at how wet it was, “guess I'll go with a coffee. Two sugars, two creams.” And then he grinned, like this was our personal joke, and looked over at the pastries. “In a to-go, cup, please. I need all the caffeine I can get.”
“Are you interested in having a chocolate chip scone with that?” I questioned, forcing a falsetto smile onto my face, and added, “Since you like recommendations and stuff.”
He chuckled, and nodded. “Trying to get rid of them, right? I've been there. Actually, me and my buddy own the restaurant a few blocks down—an Italian place. I'm not Italian, and neither is he, but I mean...yeah. Italian. It's called Il Bistro. Have you heard of it?”
I looked up from the coffee maker and groaned inwardly, pushing the cap down on top of the cup. The restaurant that he was talking about—yes, I had heard of it; I got dinner there at least once a week—was the restaurant that my apartment was directly over, along with some vintage boutique and a deli. “No,” I lied, and slid the coffee across the counter toward him, “I've never heard of it before. You wanted the scone?”
She had been hung up on the idea that I didn't like coffee for a few days, and, it seemed to me, had meditated on it for awhile before reporting back to me with her diagnosis the next Monday morning. The conversation I had with him had opened the eyes of my two coworkers to the fact that I might just not like the drink that I prepared daily; Anthony could care less, thank God, and Steven—having been told by Teresa about it during one of their shifts together—was only amused by it, moved to silent laughter whenever I started making an iced coffee for somebody. There was nothing I could do about it, either, which was the only thing that bothered me; I would always hate coffee, and they would always know it.
He hadn't shown up in the shop since that day, for which I was also thankful. “I didn't decide to work here because I was just passionate about coffee, okay? I needed a job; Beans was hiring. No brainer, right there.” I gave her knowing look, which she responded to with a loud snort, and I rolled my eyes. “Besides, that guy was, like, totally obnoxious—he just started going off about random stuff and asked me what I recommended. I have no idea what I recommend!”
“Whatever we're trying to get rid of,” Dean muttered as he drifted past me, a mug full of coffee in his hand. He had the tendency to float around the shop whenever he felt like it, grabbing a coffee or bagel before he disappeared into his office for a few more hours. “Which, at the moment, is the chocolate chip scones. Tell people about them; they're getting stale.”
That was Dean in a nutshell, or rather, Beans in a nutshell. Despite the fact that it was one of the best coffee houses in Seattle—purely opinion, though it was the opinion of half the college students in said city—Dean was notoriously cheap. His excuse was that he didn't like seeing food go to waste, but that was old and overused.
“You're too easy to read,” Teresa muttered, coming back toward the counter, “that's your problem. Anyone walking down the street can read you like an open book. And you sort of look like the kind of person—”
“That wouldn't like coffee?” I scoffed, and she nodded enthusiastically.
“I'm completely serious! From afar, I would pin you as a hot chocolate person. But, then, you aren't really fond of chocolate, are you? So it's down to, what, tea and water?” She smiled, seemingly proud of her diagnosis, and wandered away with a tray full of dirty mugs and plates.
I had just managed to reassure myself that Teresa was full of it when the door opened with a loud, obnoxious squeak—and he walked in, the sound of pouring rain coming in the door behind him. This time he was alone, and his jacket was practically soaked through, his hair matted against his forehead. “Hey!” He greeted, as if we had known each other for years, and ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, is it raining. How's it going?”
“Fine,” I murmured and pushed off of the counter I had been sitting on, straightening the visor we were supposed to wear. “What can I get for you today?”
“Dunno,” he shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and groaned at how wet it was, “guess I'll go with a coffee. Two sugars, two creams.” And then he grinned, like this was our personal joke, and looked over at the pastries. “In a to-go, cup, please. I need all the caffeine I can get.”
“Are you interested in having a chocolate chip scone with that?” I questioned, forcing a falsetto smile onto my face, and added, “Since you like recommendations and stuff.”
He chuckled, and nodded. “Trying to get rid of them, right? I've been there. Actually, me and my buddy own the restaurant a few blocks down—an Italian place. I'm not Italian, and neither is he, but I mean...yeah. Italian. It's called Il Bistro. Have you heard of it?”
I looked up from the coffee maker and groaned inwardly, pushing the cap down on top of the cup. The restaurant that he was talking about—yes, I had heard of it; I got dinner there at least once a week—was the restaurant that my apartment was directly over, along with some vintage boutique and a deli. “No,” I lied, and slid the coffee across the counter toward him, “I've never heard of it before. You wanted the scone?”
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