“Espresso”

Izel Nava (She/Her)

Editorial Team Member

Lately, I’ve been taking orders in my sleep.

Black coffee with room for cream and sugar.

Caramel cold brew with light ice.

Americano with cinnamon water.

Five black coffees.

12oz Churro latte with non-fat milk.

Double-shot espresso.

Iced chai with oat milk.

Americano with a splash of oat milk.

Cappuccino with whole milk.

Iced Matcha with oat milk.

16oz Mocha, almond milk, warmed to 140 degrees.

“Of course, no problem. It's my pleasure; it’ll be ready soon.”

Working has become a dance, one I’ve memorized with every shot of espresso and chime of the register. There’s something cathartic about working at a coffee shop, where I can spend hours attaching and detaching the portafilter to make a drink for the early commuters and dipping steamed milk into sun-soaked cinnamon.

I’ve been dreaming of the regulars, whose orders I know more than their names. I dream of the life I’ve constructed for them based on our four-minute interactions.

Sugar-free latte brings her own cup and always makes the same joke when I ask if she wants me to rinse it out. She hums along to the song on the radio, making a pitter-patter sound with her hands, smacking her palms against the table. She has a wedding band across her finger, and when she pulls out her wallet to pay I see the same photo of her daughter’s graduation. 

Cappuccino with whole milk and cinnamon sprinkled on top is a hard worker. I can tell because his hands are rough and jaded, calloused with seniority. He’s a good tipper, and I make a point to practice my Spanish with him. He always eyes the pastries, but never buys one. I’ve tried to gift one to him before, with a hushed whisper and a keen awareness of my coworkers nearby, but he always laughs it off, waving his hand about needing less sugar.

Coldbrew with Caramel has a girlfriend. They have the same order, but he occasionally gets her a cinnamon muffin. They’re in college, and they really should stop spending money on fast food and drinks, at least that’s what he tells me each time he taps his card.

During the hush of closing hours, as I wipe down the drip tray and count the money in the register for the morning rush, I wonder if they ever think about our ankle-deep interactions. And when I go to bed, I wonder if they dream of ordering too.