Whipped

"Iced venti mocha, no whip."

Stonehenge stare.

"Is that what you want?"

No, I think, I came into the fucking store, waited in line for six minutes just to tell you what I DON'T WANT. Cuz that's how I roll. I like to take the scenic route across the vast rolling plains of the Starbucks menu, stopping by all the other drinks before I arrive at my destination. Cuz getting there is half the fun, right?

"Uh, wha?--yeah," I reply, not sure why she's asking me such a dumb question. Not since my landlady called me up at work to tell me that the guy below me had water coming through his ceiling and asked, "Did you leave a faucet on?" have I heard such stupid shit drop from a person's mouth. Yes, I LEFT THE FAUCET ON. I ALWAYS LEAVE WATER RUNNING WHILE I'M AT WORK.

"So...iced venti mocha."

"No whip," I repeat.

"You don't have to say 'no whip.' Unless the person asks for it, we don't put whipped cream on."

"Okay. It's just, at every other Starbucks they ask me if I want whipped cream, and I'll say no, and then they shout out 'Iced venti no-whip mocha!' So..."

"Well, at this one you don't have to say that."

"Okay, that's one store out of twenty..."

"Iced venti mocha!" she calls back.

"NO WHIP!" I shout to the guy at the espresso station with friendly spite in my voice. I give Stonehenge a big smile. The corners of her mouth creak upward about one millimeter. For this woman, a Herculean feat of facial muscle command.

She gives me my change. I ask for the receipt.

"Thank you," she says. I hate you is what she means.

"Thanks," I say with a genuine smile and a chuckle, an attempt to ease the tension.

I hate you too is what I mean.