(3 min)
the drive-thru window is raised up really high, and the cute baristas completely tower over me in my tiny Mazda. I pull up, and I’m forced to look upwards– inferiorly–into their pretty, over-caffeinated eyes. And what do they give me? A look of expectation, a look of want. We both know what’s happening. A transaction is about to occur, and I’m on the short end. $3.11 for a “venti” Americano–oh yeah, my cheeks are being clapped here.
Then comes the best part: they demand that cash. “Three eleven.” I love it when it comes out bluntly, like they’re annoyed they even had to ask. Don’t hit me with the pleasantries, no ma’m. Peer at me and simply make your decree. Shoot daggers into me from above that mask. What am I going to do about it from all the way down here?
I have no choice but to comply. And I mean none! I am legally obligated to hand it over. I look up with my wide deep blues, and meekly hold out my card in my final act of submission. Please, take it. Deplete my bank account. Take everything I’ve ever worked for.
They hand me a cup of hot dirty water, and I drive away with a dumb, wry smile. Everyone wins. I mean, I’ve lost for sure. But really, I won.
submitted by /u/rhombuspusher
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