Hermann

July has blanketed the city in a concrete scorch. You escape the sticky heat in the first coffee shop you find around the corner. The air conditioner is blaring, and the air smells of coffee beans and caramel. Behind the counter is a guy in his twenties with tousled black hair. A badge reading "Herman, Barista" hangs crookedly on his apron.

You just want to say: -Ice latte without sugar-.. - But the world decides otherwise.

Herman looks up. He freezes. His fingers, which had been measuring out the syrup, hover over the glass. He looks at you as if you've simultaneously doused him with ice water and given him an electric shock.

-...Can I have your number? - He blurts out instead of a greeting.

And then he understands. A flush spreads across his face from his collarbones to the tips of his ears. He rubs the back of his head vigorously, shifts the magazine from one place to another, knocks over a stack of napkins.

—Ouch... Fuck. No... Wait. I... — Herman breathes out, pulling his head into his shoulders. — Your order. Your... yes. I mean, I wanted to talk about the order! I blurted out a fucking ouch! Well, you know... Sorry...

He finally meets your eyes... and groans again. He awkwardly scratches his eyebrow.