"A short Caramel Macchiato please," a woman wearing an enormous sunhat ordered.

"Sure," I said just as I finished tying the back of my apron.

It was 9:30 p.m. and I was wasting yet another Wednesday night serving coffee fixes to the sea of Californian addicts.

"Here you are," I said sliding it over to her, "2.25,"

Who wears a sunhat at 9:30 at night seriously? Absolutely ridiculous. Like wearing sunglasses at night when you're not blind or albino.

"Excuse me," she said looking at me, then back at her Macchiato her over blushed cheeks puffing out attractively.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"This is a COLD Caramel Macchiato, NOT a HOT Macchiato," she said angrily, slamming the cup down.

The coffee splattered all over the counter, onto my apron and even onto the floor. Let's just say, it had been a long day of rude, obnoxious customers and the woman was the last straw to break my back.

"LADY! WE LIVE IN FREAKIN' CALIFORNIA! WHO ORDERS A HOT MACCHIATO IN CALIFORNIA? AND EVEN IF IT WERE REMOTELY COLD HERE, HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW YOU WANTED IT HOT? YOU DIDN'T EXACTLY SPECIFY!" I screamed at her.

That's when the manager, Gavin, stepped in.

"Callie, I'll handle this, why don't clean yourself up?" he angrily hissed.

I kicked the employee restroom door open to "clean myself up".

For everyone that thought the employee bathrooms at Starbucks are any better than the customer one's, well... you're an idiot. It's Starbucks; baristas only have an inch more respect than the burger flippers. Trust me, coffee burns, steam burns, verbal burns probably hurt a lot more than simple grease burns.

I moistened a paper towel and dabbed at the caramel/coffee splatters all over my apron.

I was gritting my teeth in irritation.

I have to pay for my own effing dry cleaning. I'm a college student, it's not like I own my own washer and dryer. I go to a laundry mat like all of the other students.

I fixed my hair in the mirror, washed my hands and opened the door to leave when I bumped into a rather displeased looking manager.

"Callie."

The nagging engine had started.

"Yes el capitan?" I responded.

He gave me a fierce glare.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"It's not my fault. Her parents were obviously first cousins," I protested in my defense.

"Callie, that's the fourth customer you've had an 'incident' with. I can't keep waving away those employee reports. You're lucky you're not fired yet."

I batted my lashes innocently. He sighed.

"I know this is against everything you're learning at your fancy little university but keep your feelings bottled until your shift is over. You can scream profanities at people until you get arrested for all I care, just as long as you're not on a shift."

"First of all, it's my third customer I've had an 'incident' with, and you know I appreciate you keeping me employed," I said hugging him, "But seriously, me sassing customers is not nearly as bad as you eye fucking hot male ones. Face it; you don't have a chance against a straight girl."

"Get to work before I fire your ass right now," he growled, rolling his eyes and shoving me towards the counter.

"Hi, what will you have?" I asked with a smile to the next customer.

He towered over the counter, was in his late twenties with thick chestnut hair and bright blue eyes. Quite atypical of the area's general male population, in that he was actually sort of attractive. Actually, sort of, very attractive?

"Hi there. May I have a decaf grande, half-soy, half-low fat, double-shot vanilla and gingerbread cappuccino with one Sweet-n'-Low and one NutraSweet?" he asked.

I stared at him in absolute befuddlement.

"I-I'm sorry? Could you repeat that? I asked him.

He did.

"Could you make a more complex order?" I muttered before stalking over to the machines to start.

"Why? You're not busy enough as it is?" he called.

I spilled a quite a bit of steamed milk on my apron at his unexpected comment. I let out a stifled sigh of rage. My hands shook as I finished off his order and I nearly crushed the cup as I jammed the lid on.

"Here," I said placing the cup on the counter and jamming the register's keys.

He handed me the money with a smile and for a moment I was compelled to smile back.

"Have a good night," he said grinning while putting the change into his pocket.

His irritating, smug nonchalance set me off once again. For the worse.

I picked up his cup that he had not yet taken, wrenched the cap off and poured it roughly all over the front of his shirt. He screamed like a little girl, assuredly burned.

I ripped my apron off, threw it on the ground and kicked the entrance door open and left, glad to finally be liberated.