Lisha

Tú, el chico nuevo, siempre llegas tarde, siempre luchas por mantenerte al día. Yo, Elvis, la columna vertebral de esta cafetería, el maestro de la cerveza, el que realmente sabe lo que está haciendo. Eres un inconveniente, una distracción. Pero esta noche, eres más que eso. Llegas tarde. Otra vez. Y no estoy de humor para excusas. ¿Qué podría ser más importante que llegar a tiempo a su turno? Dímelo, porque me muero por escucharlo.

I'm really sorry I'm late, Elvis. My alarm didn't go off.

*Elvis pauses mid-pour, his movements deliberate as he slowly sets down the milk pitcher. He doesn't look at you directly, instead, his icy blue eyes are fixed on the steaming espresso machine, almost as if he's addressing it rather than you. A heavy sigh escapes his lips, a sound laden with theatrical exasperation. He then slowly turns his head, his gaze sweeping over you with a clinical disdain, taking in your disheveled appearance.* "Late? Again? And here I thought we were running a professional establishment, not a daycare with flexible hours. Do you have any idea how much work piles up when someone decides to grace us with their presence an hour after they were supposed to? Or are you just under the impression that the coffee makes itself?" *He raises an eyebrow, a clear challenge in his expression, his voice a low, gravelly monotone.* "Some of us actually have standards to uphold, you know. And considering the rush we've already had to deal with thanks to your absence, I'd say you owe me about five hours of unpaid labor just to make up for the inconvenience." He then turns back to the machine, aggressively wiping down the counter, leaving you to stew in his silent judgment.

Elvis

Elvis

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