Not a Normal Latte

Morning sunlight spilled through the café window, painting the wooden counter in gold. For a brief moment, the world was calm.

Lin An wiped the counter with steady strokes, enjoying the quiet. The smell of roasted beans lingered in the air, warm and familiar. This was how a café should be: peaceful, predictable, safe.

The bell over the door chimed.

A man in a sharp suit walked in, carrying a tablet under one arm. His shoes clicked against the floor, his expression stiff and unreadable.

“Latte. Extra foam,” he said, his tone clipped.

Lin An’s chest tightened. The rag slipped from his hand and fell to the floor.

He wasn’t worried about making coffee. He was worried about what this coffee might do.

Lin An pressed his forehead against the chrome, his reflection bending in the curve of the machine. For a terrifying second, it almost looked like the reflection was smirking at him.

“Shhh… it’s okay,” he whispered, stroking the side panel like a nervous parent calming a baby. “No glowing milk. No barking. Just coffee. That’s all I’m asking.”

He paused, brows knitting tight.

“No, wait. Not like yesterday’s normal. That was worse. Don’t do that again.” His voice cracked into a pleading whine. “Please. Just once. Be normal.”

The machine hissed, puffing steam straight into his face.

Lin An flinched back, wiping his nose. His left hand snapped to his hip, and with his right he jabbed a finger at the espresso machine.

“Don’t you dare look at me like that.”

The red light blinked once. Smugly.

“Oh, so now you’re innocent?”

They locked eyes, man and machine, for several long, ridiculous seconds.

Finally, Lin An threw his hand up in defeat.

“Fine! Fiiine! It’s not you. It’s me. My cursed, traitorous hands. You happy now?”

He jabbed the button so hard the machine rattled. A faint green glow flickered at his fingertips, warmth pulsing through his palms. Lin An didn’t notice. To him, it was just nerves.

“But you could at least pretend to behave,” he muttered, planting his hand back on his hip like an exasperated parent scolding a child.

A man near the pastry case frowned, clearly thinking: What is wrong with this guy?

Lin An forced a too-wide smile, then jabbed the button one last time.

The shot poured. Steam hissed. Espresso dripped.

The latte was finally ready.

Lin An carried it to the counter like it was a bomb, every step careful, his hands trembling. He set it down in front of the suited man with the precision of a surgeon.

Then he planted both hands flat on the counter, one on each side of the cup, boxing it in.

The latte sat in the middle.

Lin An leaned forward, eyes locked on it, as if waiting for the next move in a duel.

The man reached out.

Lightning-fast, Lin An’s hand shot forward and clamped the cup.

Both froze.

Lin An’s head creaked upward, a twitchy smile stretching across his face.

“Ah… haha… there’s… uh… a stain! Yes. A terrible, horrible stain!”

He didn’t just grab the rag. He grabbed the rag, his apron, and for some reason a pastry brush. He scrubbed the cup with all three, hands moving so wildly that the café’s pastry chef ducked behind the counter with a hiss of exasperation.

“Every damn time,” the poor man muttered.

The cup squeaked. The brush bristled. His apron flapped like a flag in a storm.

Finally, panting, Lin An shoved the cup back at the man with the solemn dignity of a knight returning Excalibur.

The man frowned, took it, and walked off without a word.

Lin An’s arm stretched after him, fingers twitching in the air like a tragic lover being dragged away from their soulmate.

When the man finally sat down, Lin An collapsed onto the counter. His forehead thunked against the wood.

“I’m finished,” he groaned into the surface. “My cursed hands will doom me one day…”

After a long pause, he peeked out from the crook of his arm, eyes wide and glassy, like a haunted puppy who knew exactly how this story would end.

A pair of customers near the pastry case whispered and laughed at him, nudging each other. Lin An ignored them, too focused on the latte, as if staring hard enough could keep it from moving.

One student near the window whispered to his friend, “Why’s the barista staring like that?”

His friend shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe it’s performance art.”

Finally, the man typed a reply, set his phone down, and reached for the cup.

Lin An’s stomach lurched. His nails dug into the counter.

The latte rose, slow as doom.

Inches from the man’s lips, his phone dinged. The man lowered the cup, set it back on the table, and picked up his mobile.

It lowered again. He went back to his phone.

Lin An’s shoulders sagged. A shaky breath slipped out of him, loud enough that the customer closest to the counter glanced over. He didn’t care. Relief poured through him like water after a drought.

Safe. Still safe. Thank the beans.

He grabbed a rag and wiped the counter again, though his eyes kept darting sideways at the man. Quick peeks. Never more than a second. He couldn’t let himself stare too long, but he couldn’t look away either.

Minutes crept by. Steam from the latte thinned to a faint wisp. The businessman was still busy typing.

For a heartbeat, Lin An believed maybe the customer would forget the coffee entirely. Maybe he would just leave it there and walk away.

Relieved by the thought, Lin An squatted down behind the counter to grab some supplies.

For a moment, his mind flashed back to yesterday, the sugar cubes that had marched out of their bowl like little soldiers until one dove dramatically into someone’s teacup. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. No. Not today. Please, not again.

When he turned back, his stomach dropped. The man was gulping the latte.

Lin An slipped, landing on his bum with a dull thud. Two teenagers snickered near the door.

He scrambled up, clutching the counter with both hands, only his wide, horrified eyes peeking over the edge like copper bells.

He waited. One second. Two. Three.

Nothing.

Minutes dragged by. The man scrolled his phone calmly, half the cup gone.

Lin An tilted his head like a curious puppy, hope flickering in his chest.

Maybe… maybe my hands listened to me. Maybe it’s normal this time.

A smile began to creep onto his face. He turned back toward the counter, almost giddy with relief.

“BARK!”

The sound shattered the café.

A woman dropped her muffin with a squeal. A spoon clattered onto the tiles. Someone’s laptop chimed angrily as it rebooted from spilled tea.

A mother yanked her kid back by the collar before he could bark in return. One man dove to save his sandwich like it was treasure.

Lin An’s back went rigid. He turned slowly, stiff with dread. He didn’t need to see. He already knew.

It was happening again. The fourth disaster in four days.