There are quite a few things you're forced to give up when you begin working at Starbucks. The first is, of course, sleep. When you live twenty minutes away and have to be at work for 4:30am to open up, coupled with the fact that your latest class ends at 9:00pm and you still have to get homework done (though what's the point? College teachers don't check on that crap), you learn to get by on just four hours of sleep and relish the nights in which you get even five hours. You also start calculating which parts of your morning routine can be cut out or shortened to allow you those few extra precious minutes of shut-eye. I'm proud to say that I can wake up and be out the door in a total of eight minutes now that I sleep with my socks on, use spray deodorant, and slick my hair back rather than actually trying to comb it.

Another thing you quickly lose is your dignity. Though Starbucks is a hot spot for hanging out among youths, working there isn't quite on the same playing field. Let's start with the fact that you don a ridiculous black hat and an even more ridiculous green apron and then move on to the fact that duties for all employees include cleaning the disgusting bathrooms. I'm not sure what it is about over-priced coffee that makes it impossible for people to flush the toilet. Then again, flushing is a bit pointless when they can't even get all of their business inside the bowl anyway.

Though I lost those things when I took a job with the coffee franchise, I lost something even more important. No, I don't mean my soul (you learn not to miss that after working there a few days); I mean my name. I have the misfortunate of having been named Taylor by my parents. It's not a bad name, by any means, and for most of my life I've had no problem with it. Sure, it's a unisex name and I got some flak for it in high school, but there are worse things I could have been named…at least, that's what I had once thought.

"Welcome to Starbucks! What can I get you?" I asked, making sure my voice was overly chipper. I'd found that disingenuous perkiness made my suicidal impulses ebb.

The woman who was standing before me chomped down on her gum as she looked at our menu. In one of her perfectly manicured hands was the tiniest cell phone I'd ever seen, which she held tightly against her ear. "Oh, I know," she lamented in a nasally voice, "I saw her with that Tiffany's tennis bracelet and all I could think was 'That should so be me,' right?"

"Ah, ma'am?" I asked, hoping to hurry her along. A line was beginning to form behind her, and if there was one lesson I'd learned during my time at Starbucks, it was that patrons would always take their anger out on the cashier, no matter who was truly at fault.

She rolled her eyes. "Hold on, Trish," she said to the person on the other end of the phone. "Grande no foam latte with skim milk and a pump hazelnut."

To non-Starbuck patrons, such an order would sound like Greek. Regular patrons had a habit of firing out orders at rapid speed with no pity for poor first-time cashiers who slowly diddled around the computer for each aspect of the order. Working the register was serious business. You were thrown in and had to either sink or swim. Luckily, I learned to swim pretty quickly.

"Can I interest you in one of our delectable pastries?" I asked as my fingers flew across the touch screen, punching in the order.

Miss "Skim milk no foam latte (with a pump of hazelnut)" snorted at my question and gave a laugh that would put Fran Drescher to shame. "Yeah right! Like I'd shovel that fatty stuff down my throat!"

I smiled at her mocking while simultaneously envisioning myself shoving doughnuts down her throat. Being the good little worker that I was, though, I simply told her what she owed me, took her money, handed her the change, and instructed her to wait at the end of the counter.

"Let me guess: You were daydreaming about pushing a Big Mac down her throat?"

I gave Nora, my co-worker and female counterpart, a guilty smile. "Actually, it was doughnuts, but you get the gist."

Nora gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. She was one of the few people working there who I knew I could trust and who had a healthy sense of humor. She also was slightly more level-headed than me, which came in handy when I was on the verge of strangling someone.

"Just remember that when you're a famous director you can give a bunch of interviews about how you were a tormented barista and how you channel that into your work."

I turned back to the register as I thought about how I could channel this pain into a film – perhaps Nora and I could co-write a movie called The Coffee Shop That Stole My Soul. When I finally focused on the next costumer, my jaw almost dropped. The young man standing before me was by far the most gorgeous man I'd ever laid eyes on. He was tall and gaunt – lanky, others might call it. He had brown hair, twisted into soft, messy curls, dark brown eyes, and the most adorable lips I'd ever seen. I felt my heart pounding within my chest as I looked at him.

"…Hi." I mentally kicked myself for sounding like a lovelorn little girl

The adorable lips twisted up into a smile. "Hi. Do I order here?"

"Yes, here…here is where you order."

"Good. I'm glad we established that. So could I please have a tall caramel frappuccino with extra caramel and one of those really great looking pink brownies?"

"Sure, but, between you and me, those things are gross."

"Well, then what do you suggest, oh expert one?" he asked in amusement.

"The apple fritters are awesome and the pumpkin cinnamon muffins, as strange as that flavor combination sounds, are pretty much the food of God."

The gorgeous man raised his eyebrows, though the grin remained. "Well, with a description like that, how could I possibly refuse? One pumpkin cinnamon muffin…Mister…Snitch?" he asked, leaning down to look at my nametag. "That's an unusual name."

I tried not to let my cheeks redden as I punched in his order. "It's a nickname. I'd rather not go by my real name here."

"Embarrassing?"

"More of an annoyance."

"Well, don't keep me in the dark," the man egged on. "What is it?"

I leaned in, beckoning for him to do the same. "Taylor," I whispered as though I were telling him a national secret.

"Taylor?" he repeated. I could tell he didn't get it. "What's wrong with the name Taylor?"

"Nothing if you don't work at Starbucks. If you do, it opens the door for Broadway fangirls and pre-hags to make jokes that are neither funny nor clever."

"Ah…I'm sorry, but I don't follow."

"There's a song sung by Kristin Chenoweth. She's a big Broadway celebrity, though she's been doing lots of TV work lately. Anyway, the song is called 'Taylor the Latte Boy' and it's about a boy named Taylor who works at Starbucks and who is the object of affection for some crazy chick who thinks that a triple latte is a symbol of love."

"So these, uh, 'pre-hags' come in here and start serenading you?"

"Yes, and the worst part is that half of them can't sing nearly as well as they think they can. After the fifth one warbled through a chorus and drew strange stares from other patrons my manager forced me to use another name on my nametag."

"Tall caramel frap with extra caramel!" came a call out from the end of the counter.

"I think that's me," the man said, giving me a sad smile which I returned. "I guess it's not logical to try and stand in line all day."

"No," I agreed. "I'm sure your legs would start to hurt."

"Not to mention it would make it difficult for you to serve any customers."

Screw them, was my immediate thought. I'm sure my manager would have disagreed.

The man retrieved his order from the counter and I greeted the next customer, though one eye stayed on the man. He turned around and caught my eyes, calling out, "See you later, Snitch the Latte Boy!" and then he was gone.

AN: I don't know where this came from or even where it's going, but I like it (and if anyone is wondering, yes it will be Snittery). Reviews, as always, are appreciated!