He knew he should ask the manager, but there had already been a shift change. This new manager, with a nose ring and netted dreads, wouldn’t even remember that he’d ordered.

Then again, neither would the old manager, who had left nearly an hour ago, since she hadn’t been the one to take his order either. That privilege had belonged to the young, lanky emo boy who had commented on his paisley sweater. The emo boy couldn’t have liked the sweater too much, since they’d forgotten his order. They’d forgotten him altogether in fact.

Not a single barista had approached him in several hours. He wasn’t working on a laptop and he wasn’t writing in a notebook. He wasn’t even listening to music. All indications pointed towards a “come talk to me” attitude.

But they didn’t.

And so he sat, alone in the booth, awaiting a coffee that would never come.

And that was OK, he imagined. He’d only asked once. And that probably wasn’t enough.

So, the man stood up without an angry word and without an angry sigh and began walking towards the door. The baristas kindly wished him a good evening, just as they had wished him a good morning when he’d arrived.

He would try again tomorrow. Maybe an iced coffee would bring him better luck.