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“The regular?”
“You know me too well.”
Wyatt smiled, spun around, and began grinding the coffee beans for my order.
I stopped by this café every day for my morning brew—a bad habit, I know—but I couldn’t help it.
I didn’t know what it was—but his smile, dark eyes, and perfectly styled hair probably had something to do with it, though. Wyatt just had what I needed, and I was borderline obsessed.
Maybe it was positive reinforcement from my coffee addiction, I thought. He was the guy that gave me the goods.
He ground the beans by hand, brewed it with care, poured the result into a paper to-go cup. Every sip felt like a warm hug on a chilly winter night.
“Here ya go,” Wyatt said, placing the cup on the counter.
I gave him a smile and a nod then took the cup from him.
“Thanks Wyatt.”
I sat at my favorite seat by the window. Watching people pass by was my favorite way to spend my moments before work. This may come off as a little narcissistic, but I took some comfort in knowing that at least some of the people walking by would be having worse days than I was. The stresses of my day job seemed to melt away as gussied-up office workers marched past in a hurry.
But my moment of peace wouldn’t last long.
“I ordered an americano, not a latte,” a woman yelled. “How do you even mess something like that up?”
Her outburst caused every patron in the room to look in her direction.
“I’m sorry ma’am, I’ll make this right for you,” Wyatt said. His face looked to be a mix of worry and frustration.
Poor Wyatt. He didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.
“Don’t bother—I’m done with this place,” she said.
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The woman turned, dropped her latte on the ground, and stormed out the door. Coffee sprayed outwards in all directions, coating the ground and splashing onto nearby objects.
What an asshole.
I instinctively stood up and walked towards the spill with the napkins from my order. I wiped up what I could until the napkins were sopping wet.
“Please, allow me,” Wyatt said.
I looked over my shoulder to find him towering over me. He brought a mop and a few napkins of his own while I was wiping up the spill.
Behind him I saw four people in line for coffee, so I shook my head. I could clean up a spill, but I definitely couldn’t brew coffee like he could.
“I’ve got this one, don’t worry about it.”
He tipped his head in acknowledgement and rushed back behind the counter.
It didn’t take long for me to finish cleaning up the coffee spill. I was happy to do it, too; Wyatt had too much on his plate already, the last thing he needed was a line to build up.
I thought that’d be the end of it—a one-time incident that would quickly be forgotten—and if Wyatt was human perhaps that would’ve been the case.
After a long day at the office and a well-deserved night of shuteye, I was ready to start my day once more. However, Wyatt was nowhere to be found.
The man behind the counter was now a completely different person. He was a tall man, much more muscular than Wyatt, and his facial structure was slightly different. Everything else was the same.
“Where’s Wyatt?” I asked the new barista.
He smiled at me. It was somewhat genuine yet cold and unfamiliar, so I assumed he was still in training. Wyatt’s smile had a sense of kindness to it, even to complete strangers.
“The Wyatt you knew no longer works here. He was an old model—one that was prone to mistakes. I’m sure you’ll find my service much more agreeable.”
My skin ran cold.
“Where is he?”
The new barista looked puzzled. He tilted his head to the side in an overly animated manner. It was clear this newer model wasn’t fully adjusted to humans yet.
“Well, I suppose he’d have been disassembled for parts by now. The microchip shortage is quite serious—they had to place my order six months in advance, you know.”
I never got a chance to tell him how I felt. Did I feel anything? Yes—of course I did. He was a robot, sure, but he was one of my only true social interactions outside of work. He helped me every morning. He made my day brighter. There was no way I could replace that.
There was nothing I could do to bring him back, either.
The barista must have seen my distraught look, and he attempted to reassure me.
“That’s what happens when you don’t make customer service your number one priority,” he said.
I heard multiple people in line behind me. The barista stood on his toes to peek over my shoulder, though I’m sure he could see without doing so.
“Are you going to order? I apologize for the rush, but there are several other guests in line behind you, you see.”
“Oh…”
I didn’t have much time to think it over, but ultimately decided that there was nothing I could do. My crush was fired. It felt bad knowing I’d never see them again, but we only had superficial interactions in the first place. As long as I didn’t think about the potential futures I’d be alright. It’d be immature for me to get hung up on something like this, I thought.
I pulled myself back into the moment and gave the barista sharp nod.
“I’ll have the reg—sorry. I’ll have a large half-caf black coffee,” I said.
I didn’t mind the eerily similar smile and looks all that much—it was enough to suspend my disbelief. What got to me was his name tag. It was brand new, made with a brushed gold finish, and read “Wyatt.”