A good barista has developed an instinct because asking questions will only get you so far.  You learn to observe people at their most vulnerable, caffeine-deprived state of being.  A good barista will remember faces, the preferred temperature of steamed milk when the waitress from the restaurant across the street pops in for her daily indulgence of cinnamon cappuccino and biscotti.  Granted, it is always easier to foster connections with the customers you see more often, but sometimes, you will be blessed with an opportunity to be a part of something larger than yourself. 

I barely took notice of the boy taking a seat in the café.  I couldn’t really say what it was that made me look up, though.  He was of average height, maybe a little on the smaller side, neither skinny nor obese.  There wasn’t anything especially striking about his appearance… outside of wearing one of those private school uniforms that looked vaguely familiar.  I see all sorts of people, but the thing that made me look twice at this boy was how…worried?...nervous?...he seemed.  It wasn’t altogether obvious for most people who beeline for my counter though, their eyes fixated on the menu boards.  This boy’s face remained impassive, but his brow was furrowed and his hands were tightly clasped in front of him.  “Coffee’s probably the last thing he needs right now,” I thought to myself.  He checked his watch then fiddled with his cell phone, as if to verify his watch was in fact keeping the correct time.  I turned to greet the customer who had walked up to my register, but not before I caught sight of the boy looking around him earnestly, his eyes flicking to each of the windows and doors of the Lima Bean.

A few lattes later, I noticed the boy was still sitting alone and growing more uneasy with each minute.  I grabbed a damp cloth to start wiping down tables (which would conveniently allow me to approach to see if he was all right without making it obvious that I had found his behavior curious; the last thing I wanted was to make him feel self-conscious).  All of a sudden, he stood up facing the front door.  Another boy had walked in.  This one had wide eyes, very pale skin, and a tousled, yet styled, look to his brown hair.  He crossed the tile floor of the coffee shop in no time at all, his direct path to where the first boy now stood.  Relief crossed the dark-haired boy’s face, and for a moment, looked as if he were to fling his arms about the other’s neck.  But after a quiet moment of greeting, they walked up to the counter, looking up at the menu display.

“Hey guys,” I said cheerfully, trying to mask my awareness of the rather emotionally-charged situation they were likely experiencing, “What can I get started for you today?”

The taller boy bit his lip.  His eyes were the bluest I had ever seen, and the most melancholy-filled I’d ever witnessed.  “Grande non-fat mocha, please,” he said quietly.  Not wanting to make him feel more uncomfortable, I nodded and grabbed a to-go cup upon which to scribble the order (even though it was simple enough to remember).  “May I have your name?” I asked gently, with more curiosity than would generally be professionally appropriate. “Kurt,” he replied.  “Thank you, Kurt,” I said, smiling at him.  Then turning to his friend, I waited patiently for his order.  He had been staring solemnly at Kurt, then at the brief silence, shook himself out of what appeared to be a daze.  He blinked, cleared his throat, smiled, and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.  “Um, I’ll just have a medium drip of whatever’s brewed.  Blaine,” he added, anticipating my question.   I nodded and quickly made both drinks.  As an afterthought, I picked up a small paper bag, and put a couple of the cookies I’d pulled out of the oven earlier that shift.  Placing their order in front of them, I winked and gently pushed the cookie bag towards them.  “They’re on me,” I said, my voice lowered.  Kurt cocked his head, and Blaine nodded.  “Thank you,” he replied, taken aback.  I smiled and went back to my side duties.

A little while later, it appeared their visit was drawing to an end.  Kurt had stood up, gathering his (fairly expensive looking, likely designer) bag and Blaine placed his hand on Kurt’s shoulder, stopping him.  He leaned in, appearing to say something in Kurt’s ear, and then embraced him tightly.  I caught sight of Kurt’s bashfully flushed face, and I couldn’t help smiling on their behalf.  Trying to give them their moment, I nonchalantly ducked behind one of the espresso machines, and began to pretend like I was cleaning it.  Kurt soon left, and on his way out, Blaine approached me.  He smiled at me and slipped a few bills across the counter.  “Keep the change.”