Starbucks.<br/><br/>Last resort coffee.<br/><br/>Alas, today was last resort.<br/><br/>The coffee machine at the clinic took a nosedive with an exuberant husky in the a.m., and a late term pyo's due in five minutes. Surgery'll prolly go 'til 8pm. I pulled the lucky straw in getting the caffienation. Nearby caffienation. I get to discharge the dentals in twenty.<br/><br/>I don't really notice the cashier. People aren't my thing. But I notice Pusheen. That gets a smirk and that gets the wearer notice. The cashier is now 'pin guy that's about my height'.<br/><br/>My smile vanishes as I review the menu and its endless expanse of options. What _is_ all this shit? "One sec," I mumble, pulling up my phone, "I have a list."<br/><br/>It takes me too long to get to the text with the clinic orders. I look as out of sorts as I sound- turquoise scrubs- top and bottom- splashed with something that whiffs sterile- blonde french plaites woven behind each ear, frazzled loose from a day of dog wrastling. Also pet fur. Lots of pet fur. A lint roller between clients can only do so much.<br/><br/>Finally, I mumble out some names I've never heard of in sizes that sound like candy.<br/><br/>"And, uh, a medium iced chai latte, please." Why do cashiers always make me feel like a shy six year old schoolgirl. I'm the damned client.