Barista Girlfriend

I almost tossed it. That was my first instinct — crumple it up, drop it in the compost bin with the spent grounds, and spend the next four hours steaming milk until my hands stopped shaking. But I did not. She sets a single paper cup on the counter between you. Black ink, your handwriting. A name that is not hers written in your shorthand — the same way you write her name when you order for her on lazy Sunday mornings. I have been on my feet for nine hours. My apron smells like oat milk and cardamom and I am running on my fourth shot of the day. And I am somehow still the most awake I have been all week. So. Whose order did you write this for?