“No, I asked him already and he said he couldn’t do it. I know it’s his job. You don’t—excuse me—you don’t have to tell me. Excuse me, sir? I know already. Can I get a mocha frappucino? I think we should just start working with someone else. He’s obviously a liability. Hello? Sir? No, not you, the barista,”

The barista line is made up of two separate workstations; one where the orders are taken, and one where they’re made. The barista at the register can’t separate the woman’s order from her phone conversation and stands dumbly at the counter, shrinking under her glare. The barista at the coffee machine, who serves as the store manager, leans over him and taps the order onto his screen. Her plastic gloves leave smears.

The woman on the phone nods to the manager. “Thank you,”

“You’re welcome,” The barista answers. She gives the kid at the register a tired look. “It’s under the mixed drinks page,”

“I know,” He says. She turns back to her station and layers the chocolate syrup under scoops of ice and milk with quick, precise movements. The woman on the phone turns her back to finish her conversation, leaving the kid at the counter as alone as he can be in the store.

He uses this opportunity to take one, illicit little break. He doesn’t leave the counter or sit down, but instead of looking for busywork, he relaxes. The cups are full. He cleaned the milk station before this last order. The display is faced out. He’ll check up on the bathroom in one second, after he takes a breath…

As he stares out into space, his eyes travel over the woman’s shoulder, past the chairs and tables and out through the glass doors at the Starbucks across the street. There’s a woman on her phone at the front and two employees behind the counter. One mixes drinks. The other stares straight back at him.

He looks down nervously. When the woman has her drink, she takes a sip, licks foam off her lip, and leaves. The counter feels exposed without her there to lean on it, and the kid suddenly feels vulnerable. He leaves the counter to check on the bathroom, flushes loose tissue floating in the bowl, and sweeps up some paper on the floor, then returns to the counter. He sneaks a peek out the window and sees the other man sliding back behind the counter.

“Where were you?” The manager demands.

“I was checking up on the bathroom,”

“Never leave your station unmanned,” She snaps. He doesn’t ask her how the toilet paper is supposed to get restocked without leaving his station. He’ll wait until someone makes a complaint. The time ticks into the last hour of his shift, and in between customers he makes himself as busy as he can, adjusting the displays and cleaning the front, without leaving his station unmanned. He does not look across the street to see what is happening inside, but the curiosity makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

When he comes back behind the counter, the manager’s expression is puckered with disappointment. “The sugar dispenser is empty,”

“Should I refill it?” He asks. She gives him a short nod, so he leaves his station unmanned long enough to refill the sugar. As he passes by the window, he catches sight of the other man, in the other Starbucks, walking around the counter to reach the sugar dispenser. He can see the barista behind the counter shooting dirty looks at his back.

He counts the customers in his Starbucks, and the one across the street. There’s the same number of laptops, stacks of books on the same tables. Someone walks through the door, and across the street, a customer walks in. His manager pushes past him when the female barista brushes past the young man at the counter.

He takes the next order, grabs the broom and sweeps towards the door. He pushes open the door the same time his double does, holding his broom and dustpan in his opposite hand. He sees the manager across the street give his double a sour look and closes the door behind him.

“Where were you going?” She demands. He squeezes back behind the counter and says nothing. She continues; “You were blocking the door,”

I’m not allowed near the door? He wonders. “Sorry,”

“We don’t dump trash outside,”

“I know,”

“If a health inspector saw you doing that, we could get a fine,”

“Ok,”

She raises her eyebrows at him. “’Okay’?”

“Yes. I mean, sorry,”

She sighs and rubs her forehead with the back of her wrist, a habit from scratching itches without contaminating gloves. “Can you hang back for a few minutes until Rudy gets here? She called to say she was running late,”

He glances at the clock. It is the end of his shift, and all he wants to do is get his bag and head home with the satisfaction of putting another day of work behind him. But he can’t refuse a manager’s request on his first day, so he hangs back, and ten minutes later, a girl skips into Starbucks. Across the street, a girl skips into the Starbucks.

“You’re late!” The manager teases.

“No, I’m not!” She chirps, shucking off her coat. When the barista sneaks a look out the door, he sees his double watching him watch him.

“Scuse me,” Rudy says as she squeezes in. The girl across the street slides between the kid at the register. He steps aside to give her space, then back to get his coat. He buttons up slowly, thinking. He forgets what he’s doing and curls his fingers into the top of his backpack.

“What took you so long?” The manager asks over her next coffee order. He looks across the street, where his double stands, holding his backpack by the straps.

“…nothing,” He says. “You ever been to that Starbucks across the street?

She looks confused. “No, why?”

“No reason,” He says, shooting another glance at the door.

Each young man exits their respective Starbucks and pauses at the door. Each one asks himself if he should confront his copy. Each one is frightened of the answer they’ll receive. They each decide that they never need to see each other if they turn away, so they face opposite directions and walk home.