Chapter 7 - The Grande, Quad, Nonfat, One-Pump, No-Whip Mocha (2/2)

She's gotta laugh at that one. ”Sure.”

As she steps out into the sun, she turns back and sees him still looking at her, before another lady customer hijacked his attention.

It's thirty minutes of trooping under the sun back to the office. She grinds her teeth as she tries to ignore her aching feet. Damn this new boss, that Mrs. Gomez! They couldn't even give her cab fare! Says it's part of the deal or something. She wonders, quite bitterly, if she could still make it the next day. Her mental calculations let her arrive at a tricky conclusion: the Room Mate situation notwithstanding, she's looking at a few weeks of utter despair.

When the elevator dings open, Mrs. Gomez doesn't even acknowledge her presence. There's also something weird about her: she's no longer high-strung, as if she'd just stepped out of a spa. Mrs. Gomez's face is so relaxed, so calm, so full of inner peace.

”He's out of the office,” Mrs. Gomez says, matter-of-factly.

”What?” Claire could not believe it. All that drama, all that hard work, that walking in the hot sun—all that for nothing? ”What about his coffee? What about his grande quad whipping boy fatty pump mochachinosoy coffee latte?”

Mrs. Gomez stares at the coffee Claire holds aloft. She shrugs.

”What do I do with this?”

”I don't know,” Mrs. Gomez says. ”Drink it. Should calm you down.”

You people are the ones who should calm down, Claire thinks. For a moment, she thinks of doing what Mr. Tan did an hour ago: Smash this grande against the immaculate white wall. Or something.

But she's not Gabriel Tan. She's just a lowly, miserable Claire Monteverde, who must go home tonight to an apartment she shares with three other girls who do not know how to respect boundaries.

And that's what she does: Claire walks home. It's just five blocks away, anyway. What's another round of walkathon to cap the day?