Kiss Her Once for Me (5)

Its current vibe is all that, plus Christmas.

And no, I’m not particularly fond of Christmas. For very transparent, gaping-hole-of-loneliness-in-my-chest-related reasons.

I begin steaming a milk substitute for a customer’s flat white as the opening notes of “Last Christmas” by Wham! float overheard, and honestly, this song feels like a personal attack.

Last Christmas, I moved across the country to work at one of the most acclaimed animation studios in the world.

This year—

“Almond milk, Ellie! I said almond milk! Not oat milk. Were you even listening?”

I flinch and almost send the stainless-steel milk jug clanging to the floor. When I look up, I see Tuesday Jeff encroaching on my personal space. The man so named for his regular Tuesday visit of terror has two hands braced boldly against the back of the espresso machine, and he leans forward with a collection of spittle gathering in the left corner of his mouth. I will definitely draw him like this for my webcomic when I get home: currently apoplectic about milk substitutes and always looking like the food critic from Ratatouille. This entire day will make a good story for my most recent episode.

“Sorry, Jeff—” I give him my most ingratiating smile as I make a quick switch in faux-milk containers. “I thought I heard you order oat milk.”

He absolutely 100 percent had ordered oat milk.

“Why would I want milk made from oats? You can’t milk an oat!” he shouts at me.

“Can you milk an almond?” I mutter quietly, before covering with a very loud, “I’m extremely sorry.”

Somehow, “Last Christmas” is still playing. Or maybe playing again?

Last Christmas, my life had direction and purpose.

This year, the highlight of my day is crafting shitty latte art for a cranky septuagenarian. Tuesday Jeff doesn’t even crack a smile at the impressive foam snowman I’ve designed on his flat white. I snap a photo for Greg to post on our Instagram, but Jeff simply troops out the door to brave the slush without so much as a thank-you.

“He’s such a twat,” Ari says from behind the cash register as soon as Jeff is gone. For some reason, Ari can get away with saying stuff like this about customers without ever attracting Greg’s outrage. Ari Ocampo is a thirty-one-year-old woman pulling off wearing a fedora indoors, so I guess she can get away with just about anything.

“Today’s a big day,” Ari trills.

“Taylor Swift’s birthday?”

Ari is unamused. “The day you talk to Greg about the promotion to assistant manager.”

Everything inside me slides downward, like the anxiety is shifting my center of gravity to somewhere around my knees. Ari gives me a look almost as condescending as Greg’s. Yet, with her thick black hair, currently punctuated with an undercut and dyed with streaks of purple, I will draw Ari as I always do in my webcomic panels: like a trans, dark-skinned, badass Rapunzel. “You’ve put it off as long as you can, Ellie.”

“I don’t know…. I can put things off for a shockingly long time if potential rejection is involved,” I inform her.

“It’s been two weeks since the interview, and Greg owes you an answer. You deserve to know if he’s going to give you the job.”

I make a vague sound of agreement. Of course, I want to know if I’m going to get the promotion. I also don’t want to know, because if the answer is no—if I don’t get this raise and I fail yet again—I have no idea what I’m going to do about my mom and my student loans and my rising rent. The fractured pieces of my dreams might be beyond repair.

Ari must smell the anxiety wafting off me because she backs down. “Fine. You’ll talk to Greg when you’re ready.”

For the next few hours, we fall into our usual rhythm. Me, silent behind the espresso machine, crafting foam art like it’s 2012. Ari, happily chatting with every customer. Ari loves working as a barista. She says it allows her the opportunity to nurture her extroverted soul while still pursuing her secondary calling as an apiarist. Apparently, her entire backyard is beehive boxes, and she makes home remedies using her honey that she sells at the Saturday Market.

“In other news,” she says near our six o’clock closing, her perkiness not even slightly dulled by the long day of serving the overcaffeinated and pretentious, “I’m meeting up with some friends at those new food carts off Alberta after work. You interested?”

I bristle at the dilemma she’s placed before me. Ari means this invitation as a kindness, but my social anxiety is of the crippling variety.

I could say yes, could agree to hang out with Ari and her Portland hipster friends later. But then later will invariably arrive, and I will invariably have a terrible stomachache at the thought of leaving my apartment to go somewhere new. I will agonize over how to get out of the plans until I finally send a text with some half-assed excuse Ari will see right through.

And then I’ll sit on my couch watching Avatar: The Last Airbender for the tenth time and working on my webcomic, consumed by guilt over both my deception and my cowardice.

Regardless of whether I tell Ari yes or no, I’m going to spend my Tuesday night watching Avatar, so I might as well skip all the painful, anxiety-inducing in-between bits.

Besides, this is just a pity invite. “Sorry. I can’t. I have plans.”

Ari looks at me like she knows my plans involve dipping stale graham crackers into a container of cream cheese frosting before falling asleep with my heating pad at nine. “My friends are nice. You’ll like them.”