"Buy a mocha – or whatever you call it. She says you've been parked here every stinkin' day."
"I have not," I protested. "I wasn't here yesterday."
"You mean Thanksgiving?" he scoffed. "That doesn't count."
On this, hemight'vehad a point. I'd spent yesterday not making mochas, but celebrating the holiday with my sister and parents. We'd had turkey and stuffing and all of my favorite side dishes, too, plus coconut cream pie, which was my absolute favorite.
I was still thinking of the pie when the customer said, "So back to the wife. She says you're out here every day from nine to ten. And the whole time, you're staring outside, all sad-like, because you've got no customers and are probably dead broke, too."
My jaw dropped. Nowthatwas insulting. "That's not true," I told him. "I've had lots of customers." And then, upon further consideration, I added under my breath, "Just not at this location."
I wasn't lying.From seven to nine every weekday, I parked out in front of the courthouse, where I had gobs of customers – office workers, mostly. And then, from ten until three in the afternoon, I parked near the library, which was hit or miss in the customer department.
The onlytrulydead time was from nine to ten.That'swhen I'd been parkingherewithin sight of my house – and only since last Friday, when the renter's lease had officially begun.
As far as the house, it was located on a cute little side street across from a wonderful neighborhood park. In the summer, the park saw plenty of action, with its two tennis courts, three full-size swing sets, and a big jungle gym with a long, curvy slide.
This time of year, the park was mostly empty, but I'd parked near the tennis courts anyway, thinking that my coffee truck wouldn't look so terribly out of place in a public park compared to the spot directly in front of my house.
See? It all made sense.
Sort of.
But it's not like I'dwantedto stake out the neighborhood. I'dhadto, because the agent handling our rental agreement had stubbornly refused my perfectly reasonable request to meet with the tenant in person.
Unfortunately, I'd been in no position to raise a stink about it, so here I was, scoping out things on my own –andserving up delicious coffee while I was at it.
In theory, anyway.
In front of me, my lone customer was still talking. "So this morning the wife says to me, 'Gordy, why don't you be a sport and go buy something?' AndIsay, 'Because I don't drink coffee. And neither do you.'"
I felt my face go all scrunchy.What kind of people didn't drink coffee?
And the guy wasn't even done. "And the wife says, 'Yeah, but the girl's had like three customers all week. It's the holidays. We should do something nice. You know, like charity."
"Charity?" I sputtered. "I'll have you know, my coffee is the best in the city."
The guy snorted. "It all tastes like ass to me."
NowIwas the one insulted. "Ass? Seriously?"
"Ashes or ass," he clarified. "The point is, the wife's got a twisted ankle and can't toddle out here herself, so hereIam, freezing my ass off for a drink I don't even want, and what do I get?"
My gaze drifted to the mocha, now sitting there on the counter, all lidded up and ready to go. "Um…?"
"A butt-load of grief, that's what."
I hadn'tmeantto give him grief. And maybehehadn't meant to insult his wife.Guys could be so clueless sometimes.
"Yeah, well…" I stammered. "It sounds to me like your wife is a really nice person, and… "Did I dare say what I was thinking?
No.
Definitely not.
And yet, the words spilled from my mouth, anyway. "Okay, I realize it's probably none of my business, butmaybeyou should stop implying that she's a pig."
The guy looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "I wasn't implying anything."
