“Sorry.” My face burns. “None of my business, is it? You’re right.”
“Well, it is your business if you’re calling monsters out on their monstrous affairs. Never mind their wanking.” If anything, his grin broadens. The effect is devastating. “I could’ve paid in change. For all you know, my pocket is full of pennies.”
My face burns even hotter at the thought of him in any number of compromised scenarios I can vividly imagine.Focus, Charlie. “Please don’t,” I beg. “It’s too much to count. If you’ve ever worked retail, you’d get it, I swear. I haven’t got time for that.”
He pretends to consider. “So, what you’re saying is that you want to hurry me along?”
“No! Oh no. I mean, no, of course not. Take your time. Shit. I’m sorry.”
He laughs. “I’ll stick with paying with the ten-pound note, then. Since it’s less counting for you.”
I’m wrecked from the week and my headache continues to press behind my eyes. And yet some weird part of me thrills at this rather odd conversation with this new customer. “Thanks. That’s very humane.”
He leans against the counter, eyebrow raised. “I hate to be obvious about it, but you could enter the amount into the cash register and it’ll tell you the exact change. No need to count anything out,” the young man says helpfully. “Completely efficient. Unless…you like counting?”
“Oh no. You should see me cash out sometimes. Better thought—maybe you shouldn’t. It’s probably frowned upon, keeping a customer in the shop at closing, actually.”
At least he’d be interesting company if hewasthere when I closed the shop.
“Especially if I’m a criminal.” His eyes dance.
I peer at him. “Areyou?”
“Could be. I mean, you don’t know, do you? I could be an accomplished thief.”
“True,” I say. “But also, I don’t know if you’re the off the grid type. Do they wear leather jackets, colorful jumpers, and bleach their hair? You seem very city to me. Like you’ve escaped from Shoreditch or some other hipster enclave.”
“Depends, I’d say. You can’t assume anything in today’s world, like where one keeps their hipster enclave. City or country, who can say?” He shrugs.
“You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”
“Afraid not. This is far too much fun.”
Clearly, he’s having a great time.
And something weird has happened: I’m smiling, too.
“What would you like?” I ask at last, after a long moment passes where we just look at each other.
“An Americano the size of my head. And that brioche.” He points, then gazes at me, probably memorizing my description to tell my manager what an arse I’ve been, which would be a fair point, because Ihavebeen a bit of an arse, calling him a wanker out of the blue. He nods at a man standing further back in the queue, absorbed by his phone. Longish hair obscures his face. “And, for the record, my bandmate spotted me the cash.”
I hesitate. He’s in a band? Something odd like a moment of conscience rises. Or maybe it’s something else, lower and more primal. Get a grip.Maybe dating austerity measures have taken more of a toll than expected.
“How about you keep your tenner? Your drink’s on the house. I insist. For probably being the worst sort of service person in Soho this morning.”
“I think I had worse counter help somewhere else last weekend.” He laughs. “If it makes you feel better.”
“It really does,” I agree solemnly. “I like to be at least one rung up from mediocre.”
“You might be at least adequate, if not competent,” he assures me merrily.
“I aim for purely serviceable.”
My face flares with heat. Did I really just say that?
He taps his fingers against his lips, smiling. “That’s very interesting.”
“I’m full of wonders.”
