Sombra Makes Coffee
. . .
I have found myself pondering again as of late —
“Chai tea: venti, non-fat, no foam, with almond milk. And could you make it quick? My break’s almost up.”
Despite my having come to a conclusion some time ago —
“I will have it prepared as fast as I am able. That will be five bits.”
Just when —
“Oh, and can I also have a biscotti? Wait, are those things made here? And when were they made? I like ‘em fresh and — oh, are they gluten-free?”
In my life —
“Our pastries are freshly baked in the kitchen each morning. They are then sealed in the display window to preserve quality. They are not gluten-free.”
Did everything begin to go wrong?
“So that’s a no to freshness. And not gluten-free, huh? What is gluten, anyways? Never mind. Just get me one of those and a, hmm… a croissant!”
I levitate the pastries into paper folds, carefully so as to not drop a single flake or crumb. From my peripheral I can see Ms. Manager nod, then retreat into her office. “Your total fee for the beverage and pastries is eight bits. I will call your number, sixty-two, shortly.” I would normally suggest that she wait beside the entrance or on the veranda, as there are cushions and low tables available for every guest’s comfort. I would then bid her good day, but looking past the customer I can see that the line is beginning to wind around the outer wall, so I choose to omit the pleasantries in favor of faster service.
The mare takes her meal but does not leave immediately, to my great annoyance. “Thanks, but can you get me just one more thing?”
I repress a sigh. “And what would that be, madam?”
“I want you to give me smile!”
I do not respond right away, for I require a moment to fully digest this customer’s order. As the seconds go by and I remain glaring at her expectant face, it becomes apparent that she is completely serious. Although it is my burden as an employee of Sol Café to ensure a quality experience for every customer, and even though it is commonly said in Equestria that smiles make everything better, I find it increasingly and justifiably difficult to contain my rage at such a request. If not for the ongoing problem of understaffing, which has forced me to shoulder the responsibilities of a cashier while also maintaining my familiar and more reclusive position as barista, I would not be in this predicament. But due to the suddenness of my increase in work I have not had the chance to be thoroughly trained for such a scenario, and I find myself unsure of what to do. Or rather, I know exactly what to do, yet I refuse to submit. My instincts urge me towards violence.
But then I remember the heaviest rule that was burdened upon me on employment; it now restrains me from appropriate action. I am to, as Ms. Manager once put it, ‘Do whatever it takes to please the customer. What. Ever. It. Takes.’ And so for the sake of upholding the café’s policies, and also for the prospect of a larger tip, I swallow what remains of my pride — the taste is more bitter than a poorly prepared espresso — and resolve to attempt the customer’s request.
“Of course, madam,” I say calmly as I give her a brief, practiced sneer.
She smiles back, eyes laughing. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“No.” Before she can attempt further conversation I turn away and walk to the counter. A coworker covers my section as I begin to prepare the customer’s order. The sound of her stammering over a simple welcome distracts me from my work and it takes me longer than necessary to make the tea, as irritated and meticulous as I am.
. . .
Eight hours later the sun is set. On this night I am tasked with closing shop and polishing the brewing machines before I am permitted my leave. Ms. Manager and the others have already left, leaving me in quiet solitude. Although my current tasks are outside of the usual expectations of a barista or cashier, I have convinced Ms. Manager — it must have been two months ago now — to pay me a bonus, measly sum in favor of hiring an extra hoof expressly to clean the machines. To be more specific, I am paid an extra five bits every night I close the shop.
That said I have already cleaned most of the brewers, all but one. This last coffee maker is the most important machine in the café. It appears to be a very large and strangely-shaped hourglass, but on further inspection one can clearly see that it is actually an intricate array of glass spheres, siphons, and metal designed in such a way that when activated and properly used is able to produce what is hailed as the boldest, most richly accented coffee in the region: the Smokey Mountain Iced, named after the place of origin of this brewing method. It takes several hours in order to produce just one liter and costs nearly twenty bits for one cup.
But cleaning the other coffee machines has left me feeling rather exhausted. Seeing how there is no one present to stop me I decide to pour some of the special coffee for myself. The machine has been inactive for some time now and only the dregs remain, but it is enough for a cup. What I am doing is against health safety regulations as the coffee has been sitting in room temperature for some time, and Ms. Manager would be gravely disappointed were she to catch me taking aught of the café’s resources without permission; but it is a free drink, and from the signature menu — I normally cannot spare any of my savings on such luxuries.
“Um, hey there, Ebon.”
“Ah. Yes. Well you are mistaken.” The response slips out before I can think of a more intelligent explanation for my rule-breaking. I turn around carefully and see that a pegasus mare stands at the entrance of the café. I recognize her but her name presently escapes me — though I am unsure of whether I ever knew it. She visits the café often, but I am remiss in memorizing the names of every regular as I usually address them by ‘sir’ or ‘madam.’ I could call her by her title, but in this time such a greeting is no longer popular. Perhaps I should have locked the doors beforehoof.
She blinks at me. “Mistaken? Oh, I’m sorry, but you look so much like him. I, uh, guess I’ll just be on my way then.”
“No, I am Ebon. How can I serve you, madam?”
“Huh? Oh, well then, hey again.” She flicks her ear, letting her mane down to, I presume, cover her smile. “And I thought the café was closed. The, uh, sign by the window says so. Right? Or am I wrong?”
“Correct. Bye then.”
“Wait! I-I mean, you’re leaving soon, right? And you live towards the Everfree? Well I’m heading home right now, and I was wondering if you’d like to join me? I mean, only if you want to. I wouldn’t be too disappointed if you said no, so, um, no pressure… But please say yes.”
“Yes, I do live towards the Everfree, but —” How does she know where I live? “I am not quite finished with closing the shop.” I turn my back to her and pick up a nearby rag. “It may take a while longer.”
“I don’t mind waiting. Not at all!”
With no reason or excuse as to why the mare cannot join me this night, I say “Well then, I accept your invitation. But as I said, I will be a while longer.”
“Okay, I’ll just be outside until you’re done then — wouldn’t want to distract you.” With that the mare smiles wide, makes a strange noise through her teeth and exits the café.
I say nothing as she leaves. When she is finally gone I down the coffee and return to my work. As the night goes on my exhaustion does not let up at all, and I begin to consider whether I am immune to the effects of caffeine. It is difficult to concentrate when my eyes are dry and tired, but I persevere by concentrating on the progressively brighter shine that my polishing brings to the surface of this coffee machine. All is going well — that is, until I notice something in the reflection of the glass. I ordinarily find solace in the satisfying results of my work, but tonight, at this moment, I am greatly unnerved. For in the reflection of the glass I can clearly make out a silhouette in the window by the entrance. The mare seems to be watching me.