The Espressologist

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Cocky sex-deprived butthead guy drink. Expect only the utmost stupidity to come out of his mouth. So-so body, could stand to work out more. Crappy dresser.

Dramatically stares at a woman who comes in with a boob job. He looks like he is going to hurt himself in the contortions he is twisting into ...

"Excuse me," the customer says, stepping up to the counter. I quickly stop scribbling in my notebook and slide it onto the shelf under the espresso machine.

"Sorry about that, sir. How can I help you?" I reply in my most superefficient Wired Joe's barista voice.

"Jane, is it?" he says, reading my name tag and thinking he is ever so personable and charming for calling me by name.

"I'd like a large nonfat four-shot caffe latte." I smile to myself. God, I'm good. It's getting to the point where I can guess most customers' drinks on sight. I grab a large white paper cup, write an NF in the milk box, and a 4 in the shots box, and set the cup down on the gleaming silver table for Sarah, the other barista working the counter, to start making the drink. I type the order into the cash register and look back up.

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