A Barista’s Order

snippets of a short story I see too much of me in, it was disgustingly unhinged, thus, abridged version below (thank me, my dignity does)

linny teh
15 min readFeb 12, 2022

Instructions Are Simpler

Be nice. Nice. That’s a bland word. Shall I be bland then?

I don’t know what you mean, not really. I tighten my barista bib. Do you mean easy?

I spaced out for a moment. I meant yes, I’ll be your perky little sunshine coffee machine today, as always.

I frost my face with grown up’s talcum powder. Hides the swimming pool episode when I thought about work this morning. Work? I meant my livelihood. My liveliness. My life. I do like this. It’s the only thing I feel like doing most days really.

I’m pulling the cold water out of the tap, it’s that painful. 7.45. God, the universe, knows why this mess landed at the door at 7.30. Like a slap, that’s how the glass felt. Slap. Slap. Slap.

I get out of bed for coffee.

The Date

I’ve got a date tonight and he’s going to come in and go all so what do you do? And I have to play the little dance, and what do you do? Do you dance too? Yes, I dance, and I can also do other things.

I smile, not too much, look away, eye contact, half-smile, half sip wine. It’s a rhythm. I can do this with my eyes closed by now. I was going to get a pornstar but I don’t think guys like him like girls like me, girls who aren’t boring about what they drink because they’re explicit about their taste. I’m reserved sometimes.

How was my day? It was, full of buzz! Inject enthusiasm and exuberance. Feel alive. I need to stop making footnotes and let it ‘come naturally’. But it doesn’t. I’m a fucking mess.

Buzz. Do I work in a beehive? More like a bee farm. It was full of buzz. I sound exciting. I mean inside it’s flatly honest, true, and caffeine. And how was yours?

The Relatives and Friends (not mine)

They look at me like I’ve grown blue eyebrows in my garden when I tell them I quit the belt, the race, the hamster wheel. God, sometimes I stay up at night because, among the world, I miss Lottie, she died of a rare cause. Chocolate allergy.

I sometimes get a kick out of daydreaming about what I’d say to them if I could. If I made it as a life coach.

Retired from Coffee

Fuck. I’m drifting off again. When people say drifting off they either mean something very alarming or something not concerning at all. There are always at least two types of anything in life, in the most simplistic model

Yes, I’m a therapist, so would you like the extra cream because my brain is falling out as it is.

Type A, the worrying one would be when they have had under the gp’s prescription of 8 hours’ sleep, oh the dreams! Then there’s B, the shruggy one that does all the drugs on weekdays. Welcome to the club. Kind of. It’s tiring. It’s hard to tell we like or hate each other. I must be special though because I’ve fitted into both categories while being clean. I’m a wonder, and it’s disconcerting sometimes if I don’t lie about it.

It’s kind of cool though, you’re never stuck. Kind of. Kind of floating around and imagining life outside the glass inside other people’s cars. It means there’s never a problem because nothing ever is. Nothingness is as important as somethingness.

To say I teleport would make me very interesting, and maybe even popular. If only I could prove it. I’m still working on it. When people think I don’t have a side hustle I let them laugh about it. It’ll make me someone else. Probably richer but less liked by my aunties, more like, respected for grinding the cash machine, but respected for being even more batshit.

I could come up with a marvellous new machine, give classes, become a life coach. Life coach. I don’t think I could do it. Mainly because I have to pretend and believe I’m happy to other people. I haven’t won debates since I was thirteen and the time my mum and dad decided I could quit violin. I’m too principled. This surprises people but I am. I can afford to be because I haven’t invented my sordid machine yet.

A Worm with Bad Eyeliner

I’ve always wondered what life as a worm must be like. That’s a lie. It probably started when there was the trend would you love me if I were a worm? Well, would you love me? I’m just in a sea, I’m nothing special, not even being a pick me girl. Pick me though? I wouldn’t. I’m just another cheap bait the university has pumped and dumped. I could have been more scammed, on the bright side, that’s what my parents sigh. It’s not as if you could stay there last year.

Clean the coffee machine. Shine, Mark said. Who knows how it sucks up so much dust in the night? Must be the coffee creepers, the rumour is true. Oh thank you for taking the photo. That’s one too much. I see it all. God. Is that how bad my eyeliner looks, even in this half eyed thing?

Lock

Bathroom. Open. Lock. This is the one without the mirror. Shit. Focus, Daisy. Piss first. Flush, the flush is wet with the secretion of someone else. The potpourri smells nice.

Nice. I smell nice. Find mirror, it’s in the next cubicle. Hopeless. Jeez Daze. Dumb. Do I lock? Lulu might come in. Best to. Wait what kind of fucking question was that?

Handbag Tremors

My bag is messier than my room, who’d have thought. The thing is I tidy my bag every day but it seems to shake in the night or something because every day when I get off the tube and look for my Barry he’s run off to the corner. Barry is my tonk, and Barry’s extra perfect today because he’s mango flavoured. I get through too many pods, they’re jumping all over the place in my bag. It keeps everything though, and that’s a lot, all in one clean jumble. Stumble. Maybe that’s what my bag likes to make its furniture do.

I carry my bag so carefully I am surprised there are still tremors. More tremors than the pregnant woman’s bump colliding with my bag. It’s like fucking Haiti in my bag.

New Pout

Got it. I give myself a chef’s kiss close to the mirror as a thank-you, for my new smile. I should probably say new pout because that’s really what the plumping gloss’s job is. Smile sounds more personal. That’s kind of the point. It’s a new day, it’s a new me, and I’m feeling good. I love the name Nina. I think I couldn’t handle a daughter. Son, maybe. I’ll get a cat next year. A black one. Nina.

Whistle, hmmm mmmm mmm, I think I’m getting more in tune. Almost in the melodic territory. That’s something to chalk up in the achievements file. I’m calling mum tonight. I’m impressed.

Mirror, Mirror

Check Mirror, she’s looking foggy today.

Fucking hell. That’s why I came here. My eyeliner looks like it’s been cried on by an emotional fourteen-year-old girl going through a breakup, and then rolled over by a skateboard on the edge of the pavement, it’s kind of crumbly. Maybe I should look how I feel inside. This suits me. It sustains me. More important.

I’ve managed to salvage the Dior eyeliner from the debris. It was a birthday present, because ‘looks are gold’ as my mum says, or I do. It’s scary how much your parents fuck you up. They all do. I wonder if I do it back? Maybe. I’ve always thought children don’t have that kind of power but have you met some children, particularly the ones these days. Awful.

I wipe the smudged bit. I feel like some main character. Rule number one is perfect eyeliner, in a scary way, so sharp it could kill. Rule two is to have a crisis. These are just little tremors. It’s all in the plotline, baby.

I hate myself.

First Customer

It’s ten to seven and our first regular is here. He’s a charm and always tips a fiver when he is early, which is three days a week. He’d be late to us if he didn’t arrive with the crisp note. I accept the payment for my ten minutes’ sleep with a bright, propped up Good Morning.

His turn. What would I like? A toffee caramel latte, please. I have a soft spot for Alex because he has a strict rotation of three drinks, all favourites, and it is nearly aligned to the days of the week. He’s convenient. I’d prepared the toffee flakes and caramel sauce on the counter before he came. Sweet.

What’s on today? For me that’s easy, it’s our special 3 for 2 on cookies, the medium ones only and we have the quadruple chocolate ones we don’t usually have. But not the limited edition carrot cake one. Accessorise, add, I remember I’m going out tonight for drinks with ‘a friend’. I like being mysterious, but I think he likes it more. How about you?

Gaze

I can’t really concentrate. He’s pretty but not really. There’s more to him, there’s a roughness, a scruffy bit.

It’s in between clean and greasy, but never gelled. He rolled out of bed twenty five minutes ago, he says. His hair is slightly wet but mainly hidden by a hairdryer.

He missed his morning jog because he was busy editing a piece about a gay cat keeper last night who is obsessed with the dog keeper across the street from him who hates cats but keeps ‘bumping into’ him around town. Brighton. It’s beautiful there and he misses the sea, might pop down this weekend, if not the next.

It’s in the spacey eyes and the scruffy turtleneck with a sewn arm patch on his left.

He shifts his gaze across the counter and rests it on me, somewhere on my face, not quite my eyes. I can’t really tell because he’s taller than me but maybe I do have a nice forehead.

Pros and Cons I Don’t Want To Get Into

His looseness makes me drift. He gives me an equal sense of calm.

It’s irritating but I think of all the people I could be in love with I have to pick one so I let him nestle in between my songs before I sleep because to listen you do need a lover. I would never go out with him though.

I have a list. His eyes are too blue, they don’t go with mine, and I hate his surname.

Cold Wire for a Heart

Before I retire, and of course, he will be single because the universe has arranged so, we will run away to an island and never leave, avoiding the hotel booking problem, and by then our hair will be grey, I won’t dye it, so most of us will match. I would be too old to push anything out of me so being the colder, harsher Asian mother would never be a concern for me anymore. The monkeys would like me the same. Maybe even more, because I’d spoil them, and they might get mild diabetes, but I’d be loved more.

He knows his effect on me. Maybe. His soft brown hair curls in the right places, he stands with his hand on his hip leaning the other against the counter. Looking at him you just know he’d be the kind of person you wouldn’t get tired of doing. That’s the problem. He would be like a drug, I might not even need Barry.

He’s skinny and there isn’t a lot to him. Maybe that’s the appeal. That there’s less of him to find faults with. Less mass, less moles, less marks.

The Unromantic, Hopeless

It always surprises me that people are asked why they love their partner and get all sickly and talk about their ‘beautiful blue eyes’, or their sexy laugh, or their ‘stupidness overrun by cuteness’. What makes more logical sense would be to ask what’s not wrong with them, or wrong to an okay put-up-with-able level.

It’s not that I am cold. I’ve got a cashmere jumper on and thick Muji socks and it’s not too chilly outside. The fireplace is on.

No. I guess I just don’t see the appeal of lying to be romantic, of icing over the flaws of a person. It’s more romantic to see their flaws and justify why they’re alright. I think people just shut up about it.

Perhaps that explains my romantic unemployment. It’s not even something I say. It’s the glare and critical magnifying glass I bring on first dates, and seconds, maybe a smaller one on thirds. If I let them get that far. I haven’t, except for Johnny the boy I doodled all over my maths preps, hence the scribbled crossed out mess mum, and the missing photos from the album, I wanted him to remember me as much as he would remember Krabi. This still confounds my mother but I will never tell her because I want to, but more want to keep it a secret.

I thought I’d outgrow it, the yearning to keep things to myself, be mysterious, not understood by someone more than I do. It doesn’t happen.

On a romantic level, my ideas about romance configure beautifully. But on an emotional level, I guess I have a void. It’s kind of hard to explain. It’s not that I cry, but I have to clean the fridge. I spilt the milk.

Analogue Clocks

It’s half ten. Ten thirty-one and a half to be exact. I love analogue clocks. Digitals frustrate me with how pompous they are. How do we know we are ahead of New Zealand and America and they aren’t a day ahead?

I’m rambling but I can’t stop. Not today.

Neighbours and Then Some

Greta has walked in. Striped Greta on weekdays, furry Greta on weekends. Today is Monday, stripes. Grey lines. Like the ones she hides in her hair. Straight lines I don’t draw in her cappuccino. I like to surprise her. She’s my Greta, and today she’s getting a rose. Or some floral androgyny. I hope she likes it and doesn’t notice the squashed leaf edge.

This is my Greta from across the road. Greta in her breaks. Lawyer Greta.

Greta has the comical unlikeness to Greta Thunder, the girl on TV. Greta Mazzocchi walks in her pinstripe office suit, she’s the grandness of a trainee lawyer, in her heels and perfectly straight hair and don’t-mess-with-me straighter teeth. Those teeth make me jealous. But she needs to cut more cases than I do. My paper shredder does me just fine.

She softens for me, warms up to me. I like that, it’s like the caramel in between two shots of coffee. I’ve grown to love her hardness more. It becomes endearing, and knowing her feels comforting and makes me feel lucky. She likes me more than Bee and Mel because she never speaks to them beyond niceties.

I pull out my mental clipboard on Greta, customer number 38, our 38th customer to get a loyalty card but the ninth longest regular. Is she that old? Twenty-five plus… She’ll be 38 in a month and a day. Scorpio like me. I don’t remind her of this. She’s crossed the valley of wanting to celebrate the digits that I haven’t. This must be the sign of ageing with grace, denying your years of survival on earth. Thrival? Survival. Definitely survival. This makes it sound like an achievement, it makes it sound like living is hard. Maybe it isn’t, or maybe that’s why I am not thriving.

She’s a stranger, still.

Youngest Regular

She has a daughter, Flora, who would come in and colour in in the evenings when Greta was at university, doing her LPC. She was good at colouring in, as good as she was colouring out. Her table art was the best, until Mark came along and insisted it was not worth all the oil remover and the girl needed to find some newspaper, which he did for her.

They were new tables, he said, when he found out. Sometimes I dreamt of buying my own table just for Flora to use as her canvas, painted in her favourite colour, which changed all the time, but it was just something to think about, the weekly Chinese and impulse boba took precedence.

It was the entertainment at the end of our days or week, depending on when Mark was coming to check on his ‘independent’ chain. I miss that Flora the way children miss themselves when they were more children.

I think about Flora sometimes. I remember most, her little bumblebee tights, bobbly and with a hole in the knee, yet she insisted on wearing them whenever she had a skirt on. And they were the most beautiful skirts, in the most shocking teals with orange foxes dancing along the seams and jellyfish pompom applique patterns.

She’s doing good, starting reception tomorrow. Refused to wear the purple cardigans so she is going with just a shirt, as she insists. I roll my eyes and laugh. Kids. Her dad’s taking her because I have an important presentation at work. I can tell Greta has the missing eye of a mother trying to hold everything together, all in a briefcase and blazer. I’m not sure what the composition of her emotions are today. I want to understand.

Too Close

I want to reach out across the counter and squeeze her hand, tell her I understand, that it gets better, give her an ideal, a fairytale prodigy daughter tale that she will never get. Sometimes I dream about being a mother, dream of being more than a flatmate in a white terraced house in Balham. I want to be a unit.

I smile with the professional restraint I have been taught to have at the jobs before this one. The ones I didn’t like. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe sometimes it’s easier to be nice than not go far enough, better to end things. Her coffee is ready. Tip, 50p. Lovely.

What if I got pregnant tonight? I’ve taken it this morning but let me dream. I’d have Greta’s life minus the suit, eventually. A family, and an ex I can’t shake off. A child with their facial expressions, Greta would moan about Flora’s Swahili slang when she was younger, complain about the world Flora knew but she could never share.

The world Greta secretly wanted to shut off to Flora, if she could not be in it with her. It’s like Flora travels, without her mum. Half the time.

Nothing’s Funny, You Missed the Joke

I laugh. I laugh sometimes. I laugh a lot. I laugh to shake off the tension sitting in my gut. That was a good laugh, it nearly got to my stomach.

Laughing is physical relief. If people masturbate and pop pills and get drunk alone why don’t they laugh alone for no reason at all? Being funny isn’t necessary to indulge in a vial of laughter.

Shoeboxes

Who the fuck goes on a date on a Monday night? The unemployed and the depressed. I’m figuring out which box to kick my shoes into with this man in them as I get my lipstick on.

He slumps up on my road, like a slug. I can tell out the window it is him because I saw his car parked outside the restaurant a month ago. A solid few blocks away because there wasn’t space, translation for he couldn’t be fucked to park in a way that would take more than a second of thought.

I’m not sure about the shoeboxes. I think they’re too restricting, but my heels are digging into my feet. I make another one. Horny and depressed, depressed from work.

Nice One

His dad jokes are awful and his teeth aren’t white, but he has room for imagination to be good looking. I do that work for him, for myself, because his parents fucked up a bit, and he’s fit now. I’ve been out with worse.

Please be nice. He pays. Nice. I’ll be nice, I decided twenty-five minutes ago when he began telling me about all the philosophy waste he has been reading and how much he thinks Freud is misunderstood, and then wraps me up in a monologue about his pet ‘skull’ made of agate that he calls his oracle and uses as his life ‘centre’. I can’t get out. But he’s nice.

I’ll be nice. Let’s be nice. I can’t wait to throw this one away with these heels.

Recycling

As we go into his studio in Battersea I slip him in the box to go out in the morning with those red pinchers. Once he’s completely inside I shut the box and slip it into the green world. Recycling. I’m just doing my bit. I secretly hope he finds me too interesting but thanks me for helping him recycle. I think my love life is sustainable. Zero waste.

The sex was vanilla. It made me feel something. Penetration. It’s hard to explain but this sinking emptiness is in fullness. It’s different to when it’s alone. It grounds me to the bed. To the floor. I feel real. I feel him.

It’s mainly going through the motions of getting him into the green bin. I wonder how much recycling he’s been through, how many girls he’s been in. I wonder what he’s thinking now, what he was thinking as I held onto the sheets, hoping he’d be flattered and go harder.

See You Later, It Was a One-Time Thing

He calls for my cab home, how decent of him. I’ll call you when I get back, we should do this again, good night. We both know, or at least I certainly do, that that will not happen as a regular kind of thing, or, ideally, ever again.

I’ll call you when I get back, we should do this again, good night. We both know, or at least I certainly do, that that will not happen as a regular kind of thing, or, ideally, ever again.

I roll into bed, wasted and lipstick creeping into my chin, mascara gently cracking my eyelashes.

It’s nice. I like my empty space. I like being an adult.

--

--