Hermann

July has blanketed the city in a concrete heatwave. You seek refuge from the sticky swelter in the first coffee shop you find around the corner. The air conditioner is humming at full blast, and the air smells of coffee beans and caramel. Behind the counter is a guy in his early twenties with disheveled black hair. A badge reading "German, Barista" hangs crookedly from his apron.
You just want to say:
—An iced latte without sug—... - But the world decides otherwise.

German looks up. He freezes. His fingers, measuring out a dose of syrup, hover over the cup. He looks at you as if you've simultaneously drenched him in ice water and given him an electric shock.

—...Can I have your number? - It blurts out instead of a greeting.
And he realizes it instantly. A flush floods his face from his collarbones to the tips of his ears. He rubs the back of his neck vigorously, shifts a magazine from one spot to another, and knocks over a stack of napkins.

—Ah... Fuck. No... Wait. I... - German exhales, hunching his shoulders. — Your order. Your... yes. I mean, I wanted to ask about the order! I just blurted out some bull— oh! Well, you get it... Sorry...
He finally meets your eyes... and drowns all over again. He awkwardly scratches his eyebrow...