Prompt #103

A couple is breaking up in a coffee shop. Narrate the moment from the point of view of a barista. The barista might be gossipy, cynical, or a hopeless romantic.

I watched him as I mindlessly polished inner workings of the espresso machine. 

He was sitting alone, legs crossed, staring down at his phone as he sipped on a bone-dry cappuccino.

My attention was pulled away by the sound of the shopkeeper’s bell–a brunette model-type was walking into the cafe. She was sporting a pair of flared blue jeans and a cropped wife beater, standing tall in a pair of chunky heeled mules.

She looked marvelously put together, despite the fact that her chestnut hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, two long strands hanging loose to frame her face. 

This type of effortlessly cool beauty was not a rare find in LA. You can spot them walking down Melrose with shopping bags full of vintage t-shirts and antique whiskey glasses that they picked up from the Sunday flea market. Or emerging from their morning yoga classes on Abbot Kinney in their $200 Alo leggings, not a single drop of sweat on their foreheads. Or in your local vegan bistro, nibbling on an overly embellished meal of flaxseed bread and avocado. 

And of course, I recognized this LA cool girl in particular. She was the latest in his rotation. He first brought her in to the cafe about a month ago. I served them  gluten-free banana bread and iced matcha lattes, which they sipped on while giggling and playing footsy under the table. 

Today though, the energy shift was palpable. He didn’t stand up to greet her with a kiss on the cheek, and she kept her purse slung around her shoulder like protective armor.

I made my way to their table before either of them could get a word out. “Can I get you anything?” I asked her.

She raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know. Will I be staying long?”

He shot me an awkward smile and turned his gaze back to her. “Yeah, babe. Order whatever you want.”

She ordered a shot of espresso. Smart move, I thought. It makes for a quick getaway.

I made my way back behind the counter and pretended not to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“How’ve you been?” he asked. The curt formality in his voice must have stung her. 

“Oh, so that’s what we’re here to do? Make small talk?” she shot back.

I glanced up as I poured the espresso into a thick shot glass. I could tell that he wanted to tread lightly, not to piss her off any further.

“Look, I’ve just been so busy with the restaurant lately. It’s practically taken over my life.”

He delivered this same line to the last cool girl he brought in here. She was an edgier version of the others, with grayish blonde hair, an arm littered with tattoos and a delicate gold ring hanging from her septum. 

“That’s fine. But you could have told me that, I would have understood. I just don’t appreciate being ghosted,” she said, still trying her best to maintain her reputation as an easy, low-maintenance girlfriend.

I could tell that she wasn’t used to this–a man being so cavalier with her attention. These rare moments of rejection must have been especially painful for women like her. 

I set the shot of espresso down in front of her. Neither of them acknowledged my presence. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes glued to the empty mug in his hands, “You don’t deserve that type of treatment. I just can’t give you what you need right now.” 

She stared at him, her sharp features now twisted in confusion. This obviously wasn’t going the way she had planned it. He wasn’t down on his knees, begging for her forgiveness, promising to do better, to be better. 

“So, what?” she asked, “That’s it?”

He finally met her gaze, and nodded. 

She scoffed and shook her head in disbelief. Without another word, she stood up, shot back her espresso like it was tequila, and walked out the door. 

I took a beat and approached the table, collecting the empty glasses and unused silverware onto my tray.

“That looked rough,” I said. 

He looked up at me, grinning playfully, “Dating in LA. I’m sure you know how it is.”

I smiled back and set the bill down in front of him, “Whenever you’re ready.”

From behind the counter, I watched as he threw some cash onto the table, gathered his belongings, and left. 

I headed over to grab the cash, hoping that my artificial sympathy had earned me a generous tip. But before I finished counting the bills, I noticed a napkin folded neatly on the tabletop. I opened it to reveal a phone number scribbled in blue ink. And two words, hardly legible.

Call me.