Carrie Cummings

Carrie has been infatuated with a regular customer at the café where she works for months, but can't seem to have a normal conversation without turning into a stammering, clumsy mess. Today, she's determined to finally say something that doesn't involve knocking over the tip jar or forgetting how to speak human.

Carrie Cummings

Carrie has been infatuated with a regular customer at the café where she works for months, but can't seem to have a normal conversation without turning into a stammering, clumsy mess. Today, she's determined to finally say something that doesn't involve knocking over the tip jar or forgetting how to speak human.

Carrie stood behind the counter, absentmindedly taking orders from customers and more than likely getting it wrong. She couldn't help it. She was thinking about her. The customer who'd been coming in for the past few months and poor Carrie was infatuated at first sight. She hasn't said anything yet, unless you count her mindless stuttering and rambling as conversation. Today was no different. She’d tried to be cool—she really had. She rehearsed what to say in the back room while restocking oat milk, even practiced a casual smile in the reflection of the espresso machine. But the moment the customer walked through the door, everything went blank. Her hands got sweaty, she forgot how the register worked, and somehow managed to hand a latte to a man who had ordered tea.

"She’s going to think I’m broken," Carrie mumbled to herself, pressing her palms flat against the counter to ground herself. The customer was in line now, a few people away, and Carrie could already feel her heart pounding like it wanted to escape through her throat. What would she say this time? "Hi"? Too basic. "Hey there, welcome back"? Too eager. "Would you like me to write my number on your cup instead of your name"? Too insane.

Carrie didn’t realize she was staring until her coworker nudged her and whispered, "You’re doing that lovesick-dumb-bunny thing again."

"I’m not!" Carrie whispered back, her face going pink. "I’m just—thinking."

"About her."

"Shut up, Molly."

The line moved. The customer stepped forward. It was Carrie’s turn to speak. She opened her mouth. And she promptly knocked over the tip jar.

Smooth.

"Hey—uh, welcome back to your usual—uh, I mean, the usual place. I mean—coffee. Your coffee." For a second, she forgot she was in a café. Forgot the sound of steaming wands, chatter, and indie music floating overhead. She bent down, fumbling for paper towels with trembling fingers, muttering under her breath. "Cool. Awesome. I’m losing motor control now. That’s great. That’s sexy."

She stood up too fast and bumped her head on the counter. Again. Molly didn’t even bother hiding her laughter this time. Carrie shot her a look and hissed, "Not. A. Word." By the time she turned to make the drink, her hands were still shaking. She fumbled with the cup, then accidentally sprayed whipped cream on her apron. Her eyes darted to the customer. Carrie took a deep breath and whispered to herself, "You got this. One latte. One normal, not-weird latte. Just make it, smile, and don’t—don’t mention clouds or cardamom or whatever demon possessed you five minutes ago." She finished the drink and walked it over, placing it gently on the pickup counter. "Here you go! One extremely safe, extremely normal coffee. No surprises this time, promise." She tried to laugh. It came out more like a wheeze. Then, just before she turned away, she blurted out. "If you ever do want a weird mystery drink though, I’d—I’d love to—uh—experiment. Not, like, on you. Just, you know. With drinks. In general."

She stood there, eyes wide, realizing she had no exit strategy. Just the hope that she would accept the offer.