Customer 234

beach sunset, vagabond, taken, astronaut     -charisa               

“Two espressos and a butter rum muffin, please,” murmured the 234th customer of the day. 

Ysenia scribbled down his order on a worn-out notepad, her head bobbing up and down to signal she was listening. The customer is always right, the customer likes smiles, the customer likes to know you’re listening. And this time, Ysenia really was listening, enlivened by the last word tumbling out of his mouth. “Please,” he had said. 

It was such a nice word. However clumsy and accidental it might have been, it gave Ysenia a sense of freedom and goodness, as if she had some kind of benevolent power. Perhaps Customer 234 was an astronaut and she was his benevolent lifeline—or maybe she was a queen with a choice. Would she, or would she not, bestow her gracious subject two cups of cheaply made coffee please?

Ysenia smiled at the thought. “Your order’s taken. It’ll be out in a few.” 

“Thanks a bunch.” 

Just as Ysenia closed the notepad, 234 raised his head and squinted at her chest, his mouth in the shape of what could only be a smirk. The color drained from Ysenia’s face. Why was it always her chest?

She wasn’t a queen— she was just another slaving waitress, always just a waitress with a pair of breasts. How could she ever forget? And 234 was just another nasty man. Any appreciation she had felt for his “please” had evaporated. It reminded her of the incident only two days before, when a group of biker boys pulled up to the cafe, their portly arms inked over with skulls, wheels, roses, and words like “VAGABOND” and “HIGHWAY TO HELL.” She had hated the way their eyes bulged at the shape of her body, hated the icky feeling when one of them “accidentally” brushed her legs while picking up a fallen fork. 234 was no different, she realized: a man is a man is a man is a...

“Hello…?” the soft, deep voice interjected her thoughts. 

234 smiled up at her, his eyes a tired brown color—the same color as Ysenia’s—and despite herself, her heart began thumping. She hated herself for it. Did she not have any sense of self-respect?

“What’s your name?”

Ysenia coughed. “Oh.” It had been a while since someone had asked her how to properly pronounce her name. It was usually just “hey,” or, if they were nice, “excuse me” followed by an order. Why was 234 acting like he cared?

“Um, so it’s… ‘why’ like the question and… and… let’s see, ‘senia’ like ‘poinsettia’... except with an ‘n’ instead of the ‘t’s’. Together, uh… together, it’s ‘why-senia.’ Ysenia. It’s a bit different…” she mumbled. She sounded like a fifth grader with a sock in her mouth. Stop fumbling with your pen. Ysenia stuck her hands in her back pocket. 

“Anything else I can get for you?” Look the customer in the eye. Ysenia lifted her eyes. His were still pasted on her chest. This feels sickening. Why are there butterflies in my stomach?

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll be right back with your order,” she abruptly proposed, her heart pounding. She flashed him a strained smile and awkwardly shuffled to the kitchen. 

“Thank you, Why-senia...” she heard a quiet voice call out after her. 

Breathe, tear out the order, pin it to the counter edge, the customer is waiting. Just a customer. Just a customer. He is just a customer. “Two espressos and a butter rum!” she called out, her voice oddly shaky. She could fry an egg on her cheeks; they were so hot. What was wrong with her? Was this what profound anger felt like? Was this some kind of twisted crush? Was she so pitiful that she could fall in love with a boorish man simply because he asked for her name? She closed her eyes and willed her breathing to slow. Just a customer. Just. A. Cust—  

“Two espressos and a butter rum ready to serve!” the cook yelled from the kitchen. A chubby hand pushed a tray towards Ysenia, who whisked it atop her arm. Breathe. Just a customer, she reminded herself.

As she made her way towards 234, she allowed herself to look at him more closely. Cropped black hair, khaki shorts, T-shirt the color of a beach sunset. A slight scar on his neck. His eyes closed as if in prayer. It was 4 in the afternoon and he was alone in a cafe booth, about to receive a muffin alongside not one—but two—espressos. Ysenia wondered if he was waiting for anyone. His eyes were still closed by the time she reached his table, so she just placed the muffin and espressos on the tabletop. Ysenia was unsure of whether she wanted to slap him or kiss him. This is so messed up.

234 was the only customer in the small restaurant, and had he been any other person, Ysenia would have quickly forgotten him, pulled out her book from the drawer, and begun reading. Out of habit, she did open her book, but reading was the last thing on her mind. Instead, she peered over the edge of the page at the man who had asked about her name. He placed one cup of espresso on the other side of the table, as if serving a friend. During the entire course of his meal, he never took his eyes off of it. Mid-muffin, Ysenia felt her anger fading. She was appalled by her weakness; she detested the fact that she could surrender her pride so quickly. And yet... When he was done, 234 pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbled something on it. Then he got up, paid at the register, and left.

“Nice meeting you, Ysenia,” he waved as he passed by her on his way out. Before she could respond, he was already gone. She felt the thud of her heart against her ribs. 

Later, when she was cleaning 234’s booth, Ysenia noticed a slip of paper tucked underneath his plate. 

My mother’s name was Yesenia. Like you said, a bit different from yours. Today was her birthday. Thanks for the coffee.

Ysenia. Yesenia. Ysenia. She looked down at her nametag: three years old, scratched and fading. Barely legible. It was then that she realized 234 had not been staring at her chest at all, at least not in the way that she had accused him. 

Ysenia lifted her thumb from the paper. In small handwriting underneath it:

P.S. “A bit different is a bit beautiful.” - my mother’s words