I am me.
Shocking, right? But it’s deeper than that.
There is a trend on the internet right now where people state how others have influenced them and that, in fact, their souls were just pieces of their friends all put together. All my opinions, however, are my own. I do not like influence. I do not like friends.
I scroll, seeing that the new video depicts this trend that has gone slightly viral. Apparently, Catherine Rotunda had gotten her love of knitting from her boyfriend, and she started braiding her hair after her childhood bully said her hair was too ugly to be let down. It obviously did not affect her too much; in her profile picture, her hair is down and highly curly, but whatever. There are other examples, but I do not linger on the video long enough to catch them.
I look up, taking sight of my modest bedroom. It is tiny: I am living in Queens; it has to be tiny, or I have to be rich. There is not much on the walls except a picture of my younger self and my dog. We are so cute. My apron sits on my modest desk chair, highlighting the extremes of my living. My bed creaks as I get up, making my way to the kitchen.
My morning routine consists of mourning for the times when my parents did everything for me, as now I am entirely helpless (not completely, but I struggle). I brush my teeth with the last morsel of toothpaste left with the brush that should have been thrown out last month. I also wash my clear retainer, as having adult braces might be too embarrassing, even for me. I fix my hair in a pitiful attempt to look put together, and I finish off the look with my adorable apron and beaten-up non-slip sneakers. I ignore the thoughts screaming to quit my job and never show my face again as I leave my meager apartment.
The mode of transportation I chose to partake in is walking, as the café I work at is less than a block away from my hole of an apartment. The walk does not give me any time to reflect, which sucks, but at least I do not have to ride the subway. As soon as I leave, I am there, the modern café that I am convinced only immature teenagers and business bros who are running late go to. I do not know, though; I always make drinks rather than serve because of my poor customer service skills.
The back door handle is covered in some mysterious grime, giving me another reason to wash my hands besides the work protocol. As soon as I entered, I was greeted with the smell of unclean dishes and microwaveable muffins, and I tried not to gag. Like I said, this place sucks.
My manager, Mrs. Blobishco, (us lowlife employees were not allowed to call her by first name like we were students, and she was a grouchy old teacher), greets me at the door. I think her first name was something simple like Kate; I once saw her driver’s license. Her long nails look more evil than usual; I think she took our tip money and got a fresh new manicure yesterday. She is less threatening when her cuticles are showing. Her eyes looked me up and down before putting a villainous smirk on her face.
“Shelly called out sick today, you’re working register,” after saying that, she promptly leaves, her heels (why is she wearing heels) clicking on the floor as she enters the main part of the café. I stay put, astounded that they would put my unlikeable butt in the front.
It makes sense, in retrospect. I am her least favorite, and no one likes talking to the snobby population that goes here, so of course, I would be put up front. My scowl does not leave my face as I walk to the front, refusing to do anything else out of pure spite.
The shop opens at seven A.M each morning, no matter how much I say that we get no activity at those times during the weekends. I have two minutes to grab a black coffee with extra espresso shots to deal with the unbearable customers. The paper coffee cup feels light in my hands, and it gets lighter as I chug it, remembering the “no drinks while clocked in” rule. When Shelly first came, she spilled her caramel macchiato on the counter and a businessman’s suit, creating the rule. She definitely should have been fired, but it’s Shelly; she literally is a caramel macchiato. Part of me wishes I could be sweet and loving like that, but after the number of times Shelly has cried over a douchebag of a man in the breakroom, I am perfectly fine with my dark-roasted heart.
My stupid manager turns the sign to open and sends me an all-knowing smirk. I hid my ugly look, not wanting her to hate me more and put me back here. To distract me, I fidget with the empty homemade tip jar to my right, and the first customer comes in.
My report cards always said that I could try harder and participate more. I sat at the back of the class, doodling black hearts onto my paper and hands. I seldom had friends and the ones I had left once they realized how uninterested I was. These same traits oozed off me as I greeted customer after customer, my forced smile becoming a true frown as minutes passed. I felt my job slipping further away as people left the counter dissatisfied and annoyed, and the reviews reflected their thoughts. They act like I am crazy for reacting negatively to their latte with no milk suggestions. 
“What do you mean you’re out of caramel?”
“My child wants a cake pop, what do you mean there is no Oreo birthday cake swirl?”
“Steam it to 145 degrees. What do you mean it will burn my mouth? The customer is always right!”
For the sake of my only source of income and my sanity, I promise myself to be more polite to the next customer.
The door opens, and the bells chime happily. The woman walking through the door has a similar expression on her face, and her bright outfit suggests that her current feelings are usual. Her walk had a hop to it, her blonde curls bouncing behind her. She stops at the glass display of pastries, ogling them and taking her sweet old time. Unlike the meanie manager, her pink nail, which was short, tapped against her chin in thought like a cartoon. I stare at her, wondering what lack of life events she has gone through to make her still act like a happy little kid in a grown adult’s body. She fully stands up and walks to the counter, and I fulfill my promise to myself by smiling.
“Hi, welcome to Avenue Café, what would you like?” I say, feeling my eye twitch at the out-of-character behavior I am currently engaging in.
“Oh my goodness, I have not been here in so long! What do you recommend?” She smiles, showing off her perfect white teeth. I push down an oncoming glare and take a deep breath.
“I recommend our current special.”
“Oh, what’s that?” She was not supposed to ask that. It was just what you were supposed to say when someone asked that question. That was the one thing I remembered from my fifteen-minute training session two months ago.
“Ma’am, please just choose a drink,” I say, my positive promise already worn off. Her smile changes into something resembling pity, which makes no sense. She stays silent, and I take the welcome silence to stare at the clock. I have to swallow a couple curse words when I realize I still have six hours left in my shift.
“Is something the matter?”
“What?”
“Well, I don’t know, aren’t baristas supposed to be a bit nicer?”
“I’m usually not here, so I don’t know,” I do not know why I was telling this random woman all of this, but she was not holding anyone up, so I suppose it was fine for now.
“Oh, okay,” She finally shuts up, and her finger raises to her chin again, looking at the board of drink selections. I tap my fingers against the table in annoyance, trying not to make it too obvious that I wanted to pounce on her and force-feed her a shot of espresso to get her to leave.
“Hmmm, I think I will have the mocha frappe, but instead of regular milk could I have oat milk and-“she stops, and so does my slightly loud tapping of the screen. I look up at her, knowing that if she does not finish in ten seconds, the order screen will reset, and I will have to redo the order again.
“Is there something wrong?”
She already asked, “No, ma’am, but can you please finish your order?”
“Well, I want to know what’s wrong,”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“Bridget. Tell me what’s wrong.”
She was so adamant, acting like we were sitting down in the coffee shop like two old friends talking about life’s problems, but we were not. I had just learned her name, and now she was interrogating me about my feelings at seven-thirty. On top of all that, she was drinking a coffee milkshake at seven-thirty. This girl was a whole other level of crazy.
I sigh, “Nothing is wrong. Would you like to order now?”
“Is it my drink order? I’ve always been told it is a bit much,” At least she is self-aware.
 “Would you like to order now?” I repeat, trying my best not to reach over the counter and start beating her. My customer service is slowly slipping away and being replaced by the facial expression that is part of why I spend my nights alone. Instead of being completely repulsed by this, she laughs.
“I go to Kiki College, you know, right over there?” She points in a meaningless direction; I nod with the sliver of politeness I have left, “Anyways, I’m a psych major, so I’m literally learning how to listen to people talk about their problems. This is good practice! Now, tell me!”
I never went to college and never felt the need. I could probably still go and graduate at a reasonable age. I’m only twenty, after all. Bridget did not seem like the type of person to be in college in this city. She was more of the surfer chick whose hair was naturally blonde, and her days would be spent lounging on the sand.
I look behind her, seeing many pedestrians pass the café door and go on with their days, and my coworkers are lounging in the back before it gets busier, leaving Bridget and me alone in the cafe. She looks at me again, a curious look on her face, wanting to know all my deepest secrets within minutes of meeting each other. She is one weird bird.
I decide to humor her, “Well, I do think your coffee order is absurd, do you know what tine it is?”
She ignores my question, “And why do you think that?”
“Hmm?”
“Why? Why is your first instinct judgement?” She says, her eyes not breaking eye contact with mine. I shiver in discomfort, and she laughs again, “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I’m not judging you, that would be very hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it?”
I do not respond, instead looking at the ground at my beat-up sneakers in embarrassment. Bridget does something I did not see, and she speaks again.
“Well, I’ll admit, I thought the drink was interesting at first, too. When I met my boyfriend, Jeff, oh my goodness I love him, we were at another coffee shop. I was getting a lemonade, and he got the drink I’m ordering right now. I thought that the drink was a bit much, and I gave him a look saying exactly that. Of course, him being the sweetest, cutest man I have ever met, he laughed and made me try some. And, oh my goodness, it was delicious! Now we are dating, it’s our one year anniversary soon! I actually can’t wait I’m so excited!”
I looked up to face her again because that story was no short of odd. She told me that she met her current boyfriend by trying some of his drink, and they bonded over that. And it worked out.
“I think you are judging me again, which is fine! I get it, it is an interesting meet up story, but you got to put yourself in weird situations sometimes, you know?”
I do not know; my life has been spent in the comforts of my comfort zone, not being approached with any challenges but having to work the register at this stupid job.
“I just drink a lot of black coffee, I’m not a sugar type of girl.”
“I’m glad you came around, any who, I forgot to finish my order! I’ll get the mocha frap with oat milk, and extra whipped cream and chocolate sauce, medium,” She pauses, “Make it two.”
“Seeing your boyfriend after this?”
“No, the other one is for you!”
A shocked look appears on my face. It was a genuine act of kindness, which I have not received since mandatory valentines in elementary school. My cold, shriveled heart warmed at the action, and a smile slowly appeared. I move to make the drinks, completely forgetting that I have to ring her up, but in the corner of my eye, I see her silently putting a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. I don't know what to even say to that.
I put the ice, coffee, oat milk, and four pumps of chocolate flavoring into the blender before starting it, the methodical hum filling the cafe as I grab two plastic cups. My hands become sticky from the unclean chocolate sauce bottle, stupid closers. I pour the frappe into both cups and top it off with the best-whipped cream swirl of my career. I put on the caps and turn around to face Bridget, who is, of course, still beaming.
“Thanks…”
“Gen.”
“Oh my god shut up, that is such a cute name,” She giggles while taking out a sheet of paper and a fuzzy pink pen. I stared at her again, wondering what she was doing. She finishes writing and hands me the sheet of paper, smiling again.
“My phone number, we should totally hang out! You know what, I’ll come back tomorrow and bring Jeff, he would so dig this place, and you! Anyways, just text me your name when you can, k?”
I simply nod, not knowing what to say to this optimism. She grabs her drink and blows me a friendly kiss before pivoting and leaving the cafe, the bell ringing as she opens it. Just like that, the cafe was empty again, and it was just me and my frappe. I grab a straw, poke it through the top, and take my first sip, not knowing what to expect.
            The drink chills my mouth as chocolate coats it, making it sweet but not overbearing. The grainy pieces of ice melt quickly on my tongue as I swallow my first sip, my stomach becoming fuller as I sip more of the drink. It is addicting, refreshing, and my new favorite.
            I break protocol (I already had a drink mid-shift, might as well go the whole nine miles), quickly pull my phone out of my back pocket, and pull up the contacts app, typing in Bridget’s number and texting her. Only a quick message of my name; I had no energy to write anything else. It was the only contact on my phone now, other than my mother and manager, but it was start. As I finish my drink, another customer comes in, and for some reason, I feel a slight smile come across my face as I greet them.