Doesn't Grande Mean Large?
"I've got a grande sweet cream cold brew for Dennis!" Joyce shouted. Someone came to take the plastic cup with the lid she hoped she'd put on tight enough, but she was too busy to know for sure. She grabbed the next drink and called, "Tall caramel macchiato with an extra shot for Laura!"
And on it went. The morning was the worst. From six until just after nine, Joyce was moving and shouting and mixing unnecessarily complicated coffee drinks. This guy wants oat milk, this lady needs two pumps of sweetener and soy milk, this other order is iced with but with light ice. On and on and on and on.
She's thankful when the shift change comes. Joyce is the only fulltime worker at the coffee shop. There are two others who come in for the morning rush but leave at 10, and then there's another two who are in for the lunchtime crowd. Joyce opens and closes the store and takes a long lunch, usually sitting on a bench in the back parking lot, reading a book and eating the sandwich she brought from home.
By eight thirty, she's already dreaming of her sad turkey sandwich. But thankfully the crowds were dying down. Joyce could actually look up and smile at the customers as they got their drinks from her. Some of them actually smiled back. But not all of them.
At nine, Lucy logged out of the cash register and went to the stockroom to do inventory during the last half hour of her shift. Andy took over the orders while Joyce went solo preparing drinks. The line moved efficiently. And at last, Andy clocked out at ten, leaving Joyce all by herself.
Quiet. Finally.
You couldn't hear the radio during the morning rush. Too many people talking. But by just after ten, the only people there were reading or working quietly on laptops while sipping coffee, and the orders came in one at a time.
Joyce took advantage of the lull and hummed along to whatever that new popular song by what's her name while refilling all the different milk pitchers. Since when were there so many kinds of milk?
The little bell over the door sounded as someone walked in. Joyce wiped her hands and quickly turned around to greet whoever it was. "Hi, welcome," she said cheerfully.
"Hi," the customer answered flatly.
Joyce's forced pleasant expression fell. This guy was in no mood for it, clearly, and he obviously wasn't going to play along. There was something about him that made her…well, not really feel anything, but Joyce reacted to him. She wasn't sure how she was reacting, but it was something.
This guy was noticeable. Probably about her age. Right up on that line of 'middle-age' or maybe a little older. His face was unshaved for at least a week, and Joyce couldn't tell if that was an intentional style thing or just a guy not taking care of himself. But his flannel shirt was clean—if a little wrinkled—and neatly tucked into his jeans. What caught her attention the most, however, was that he was jut big. Tall and built like he had a whole barrel inside him. Joyce was short and built kinda slight. 'Dainty' was the word her mother had used, which Joyce always hated. But to her, everyone seemed big. This guy especially, though.
Joyce forced herself to stop noticing the man in front of her and get on with it. "What can I get for you?"
"Just a black coffee," he answered.
Oh god, she should have known. He was gonna be one of those guys. "We have a light, medium, or dark roast," she said, doing her best to maintain patience.
"Medium?" the man responded, confused by Joyce's offerings.
"Okay, and what size?"
"Just regular."
Joyce forced herself to breathe. At least it was after the morning rush. "Tall, grande, or venti," she explained. She held up each of the cups in turn.
The big man with his scruffy face frowned. "Doesn't grande mean large?"
"I think it does, but this is just what the sizing system is here. It's pretty common, actually," she told him.
If he caught the edge to her voice, he didn't make any indication of it. "I guess that one then," he pointed. "Medium roast in a medium cup."
She couldn't tell if he was being purposefully annoying or not. She decided to ignore it. "And can I get a name for the order, please?"
"Why do you need my name?"
"We put the names on the cups so we can call you when it's ready and you get your order and not someone else's."
The customer looked around at the empty coffeeshop. Joyce hadn't noticed that the laptop guy and the old lady with the book had left at some point. The customer turned back to Joyce with what might have been a twinkle in his eye, but he wasn't smiling, so she couldn't be sure. "I don't think there's a danger of that."
Joyce sighed. She wasn't going to put up a fight. "That'll be four dollars and twenty-six cents."
He handed over cash with exact change. She gave him a receipt and grabbed a grande cup to fill with the medium roast they'd brewed earlier that morning. Luckily the industrial vats kept everything hot and fresh at least until lunchtime.
She put the lid on the cup and tucked it into a sleeve to protect from the heat. "Here you go." Joyce passed the drink to the big, tall man. His big hand reached out and took it from her.
"Thanks," he said. And without another word, he turned and left the shop.
Joyce watched him go. She hadn't seen the heavy work boots from where he was standing in front of the counter. They had some mud caked on them. Which was strange because the rest of him wasn't dirty at all. At least not as far as she could tell.
She shrugged. It wasn't important. She went back to her milks and hummed along to the other popular song by that other guy.