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There was a new barista today. She scowled, not subtly, and approached the register.

 

What can I get for you? The barista’s voice was light, but she could see it in her face. She didn’t blame her. She was told it happened to all of them. It was how they carried themselves.

 

Regular coffee. Small.

 

There was a pause, glossed over. Yes, of course. Sugar? Cream? Both?

 

Sugar, she said, walking around the counter. The barista watched avidly. She took a sip, noting the flush crawling up the barista’s neck, and opened the refrigerator door.

 

This is vile, she threw back, and walked through.

 

It was a couple of days before she returned. The barista recognized her this time. Sugar, cream? Or both?

 

It’s Tuesday, she said. Idiot. Sugar.

 

You never know, said the barista brightly. Deft hands snapped on the lid. Give ’em hell.

 

She came in again a week later: burnt and weary. Cream, she croaked before the barista could ask. She stared at a spot on the floor until the machinery stopped.

 

She reached out. The barista grabbed her hand instead. My sister hasn’t returned yet. Hands shaking, though not voice. Was the barista stealing her fortitude? Her voice shook all the time now.

 

She snatched the cup. I’ll keep an eye out.

 

You don’t know what she looks like.

 

If I come across someone who can speak (the barista almost flinched), she can tell me herself.

 

She didn’t show again for a few months. The awning seemed faded. The shadows were longer. She walked inside to find a man behind the counter.

 

Where is – ?

 

The man gave her an odd look. She hastily placed an order. The refrigerator door opened while the fake barista’s back was turned. The machine buzzed – or maybe that was her ears. Someone stepped through the divide: looking tired but satisfied.

 

Oh, said her barista, it’s you.

 

She noticed the change of posture first, the newfound confidence the kind that comes from Doing Something; an illusion of accomplishment, derived from ticking off tasks and rushing between them.

 

Or perhaps that was just her.

 

So I’m to be replaced. Flatly. Or is this a partnership?

 

The barista shrugged. You tell me.

 

Inwardly writhing, she accepted a drink from the pointless replacement and turned, choking on bitterness. An unfamiliar sensation crept up her neck. She met the barista’s eyes for the first time. Dangerous. But hungry. Orders, sir?

 

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