Curly-headed and looking vaguely embarrassed he took so long, Leo aggressively approaches the counter to claim his two drinks. As he takes one in each hand, the one in his right pops open because it wasn’t properly closed. Totally fucking burns his hand and wrist. Everyone working there tries to offer him help. He refuses cold water, ice, everything. I reach behind me and grab some napkins and put the stack up next to the little puddle that’s formed in front of him. He doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t even look at me.
The girl working the cash register comes over and begs the guy to come behind the counter into the back room so she can put his hand in ice. He doesn’t respond. In fact, Leo hasn’t screamed in pain or said one word since showing up. He just stands there looking at his hand—holding it up and staring intently at his pinking skin like a guy whose arm is changing into another creature or foreign substance (like in a science fiction movie or a super hero origin flick where the guy realizes his power for the first time).
Leo takes a napkin. Takes the two cups. Sits down with his blonde girlfriend. Angry. Understandably so. Grumpy. Doesn’t look like he’s saying anything to her either.
I get my espresso and sit down. Five minutes later I turn around. Leo and his girlfriend are making out. Like fully going at it. They’re in their 30s, or possibly early 40s, and acting like they’re teenagers in a closet at a middle school party. It’s impossible to ignore. People walking by Starbucks turn their head to check them out. The security guy eyes them a few times. Any remnant of the spilled tea incident is completely forgotten. No hint of a law suit. No threats to the kids working behind the counter. Love 1, Hate 0.
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