The Starbucks barista works the espresso machine quickly and professionally, but there's a nervous hurriedness about her movements, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she moves from counter to sink and back. As she tries to get a grande iced white mocha right for the third time, I take another sip of my coffee — black, with a little sugar.
The lady beside me snorts, and I give her a sympathetic smile. We're both waiting on the same kind of drink, only the one I'm waiting for was ordered without whipped cream. After accidentally adding caramel on top of the lady's order, the barista thought if she scraped off the whipped cream, she could give me the drink; mid-scrape though, she changed her mind and decided to start over. I'd offered to pick up the mocha for a co-worker since I had some time left on my lunch break - now it looks like my lunch will run late.
I actually don't mind, though, because I'm a little caught up with every glimpse of the barista's slightly-worried face, which frames the clearest, bluest eyes I've ever seen.
