The Barista

by Heaven Santiago

She tamps to tame her temper, tampering with silver tools on dull, dead, decaffeinated mornings.

She pulls dreadful all-nighters, sticks tricks up her sleeves, and can pull a strong shot of espresso.

She takes in vicious insults like barrages of boxing combos or lime-brimmed shots of vodka.

She soaks in her rage, to compact like a puck—like a machine would a strong shot of espresso.

She yearns to break past some scumbag’s dry advances; The sly try to trespass into her pants.

She tries to plot revenge against them, in due time, as she pours a strong shot of espresso.

She wishes life to be light, fluffy—never lonely: longing to be seen, lovely like a latte’s layers.

She loves—is not loved—she bitters—her anger equates to double a strong shot of espresso.

She sips on a cappuccino, coughs when—he walks in, behind a lengthy line of eager customers.

Steamed oat milk explodes—she’s hundreds of degrees hot and spills a strong shot of espresso.

She stumbles to—restart stamping grounds in the radiating portafilter, with trembling fingers.

She’s—enervated—electrified, like she’s had triple the amount of a strong shot of espresso.

She crumbles when—he asks at the counter, how are you? Silky, smooth, seductive, soothing.

The softest expression—across his face; how gentle a smile, he orders a strong shot of espresso.

She tamps it—perfect—rich bronze liquid oozes in a small ivory ceramic cup as if by magic.

Heaven’s often guarded—but blushes a mess—slowly sliding over his strong shot of espresso.