It's easy to look at someone and assume they know what they're doing. Maybe they're dressed like someone that does that thing, or their face is impassionate, like this is something that doesn't interest them any more than the act of walking. It's common for people to give off the impression that after years of doing the same thing, they would have some semblance of how to do it right.

And yet here I am, screwing up this latte art for the thrity-second take in a row.

I set the pitcher of milk down as calmly as possible before taking a deep breath and letting my head slam into the table. This is it. I'm going to lose my mind. So much for the quiet life.

The bell on the door rings, peeling my head from the counter. I splash the latest abomination into the nearest drain, and throw the cup into the sink with a glass-shattering sound that I decide to deal with later.

He's overall plain, staring at the menu with a blank look on his face. He's staring long enough that I begin to wonder if he's native, or if I forgot to write it in English again.

"Americano is just... normal, right?"

Neither. Just a college student.

"Yeah"

I pick up a cup and start putting two pumps of cream and another two of sugar. He's still confused for a moment when I look back up to see if that's correct.

"What if I wanted a small?"

"Do you want a small?"

"...no."

"Then is this good?"

"Double the creamer, please."

I slap the button for it again, letting the cup fill to a quarter of the way full before grabbing the regular coffee pot and dumping the remaining contents into the cup. A quick lid gets slapped on it as it's passed to him, and I chuck the now-empty coffee pot into the sink with slightly less force than the last object, despite the fact it's plastic.

He still looks confused. He opens his mouth to speak, but it takes him annoyingly long to get the words together;

"Should... register's just over there, right?"

"Yeah."

He walks to the end of the bar without me, expecting something to start making sense. Deciding my job is done, my head returns to the counter with a thwack. I hear him try the coffee.

"I--"

"Yes, the head-slamming is a Satyr thing. I'm fine."

"I was gonna say that I'm a little mad about how good this tastes."

My horn clacks against the bar as I turn my head without lifting it. I shot him a questioning look with a furrowed set of brows.

"...You threw it together like you were mad you had to put it in a cup, and it still tastes as good as anywhere else."

"So?"

"So it shouldn't taste fine if you throw it together like that!"

"Why not?"

He opened his mouth to retort, but just groaned and gestured to the register.

"Just let me pay for it."

"Who said I was stopping you?"

Now it was his turn to shoot a confused look. He points to the distance between me and the register down the bar again, as though that illustrated a problem.

"Are you not... is this a self-checkout?"

"No."

He blinks.

"Is... do you expect me to come around the counter?"

"No."

He blinks again, probably trying to illustrate some *other* point.

"Well how am I supposed to pay for it?"

"At the register."

"Then come ring me up!"

I peel my head from the worn spot on the counter for the second time in as many minutes and pacing clop over to the register. I put my hands on the sides of it, staring into the black screen on my side of the bar.

"I think you gave me a large."

"That's not it."

He blinks again. I wonder if there's something in his eye he's not telling me about.

"Is the person that usually works it just taking a break or something?"

"No, it's just me today."

My hands haven't moved from the sides of the register. I start staring at my own reflection in it instead of the dead screen. Short, stark white hair. Horns just longer than the hair. My pupils are still rectangular. No differences there. I blink, looking back up at the guy. He's still frowning, but his eyebrows aren't furrowed anymore. They actually starte to push the opposite direction, like he pities me. Or feels bad about something.

"Do you want me to just... use cash?"

"If you want to."

He pulled his bag around to dig something out of it, and I looked back at the screen for a moment before stepping to the side of it to try and count out whatever cash he pulls out. He put down a bill with a five on it before looking back up at me. I slid the bill across the counter, putting it behind the register.

"Sorry. I forget that computers aren't really... intuitive to outworlders."

I feel the confused look return to my face again, and I found where the guy's attitude went alongside it.

"Hey, I'm not fresh out the gate; I know how to use a touchscreen."

"I... yeah, sorry, I didn't--"

"I can use it if it's on, I just don't know how to turn it on."

He froze mid-apology to look confused again.

"What do you mean you don't know how to turn it on?"

"I mean the button's flicked off, and I don't know where it's at."

"What, so you just haven't been ringing people up?"

"Of course not."

"Well how have you been ringing people up if you haven't--"

He froze again. He shook his head this time, trying to (I assume) come to grips with the fact that I prefer the drink-making part to the money-changing part.

"What do you mean 'of course not'?"

"I mean the register isn't on, so people don't have any way to pay for the drinks, so they just leave with it."

He looked over to the jar that Meryl kept on the counter.

"You know they've probably just been putting the payment in the tip jar, right?"

"Is that what that's for?"

He facepalmed, and it took me a moment to remember that hurts for humans. I winced, raising a hand but deciding to let the reaction play it's course.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine, just flabbergasted."

"Why?"

"Because unless there's someone hiding in a break room I didn't see, the only person here has been here since opening without knowing how to turn on the register, and without even taking payment for the coffee they've been making?"

"Yep."

"And that's not... weird?"

"I mean, I own the place, so I figure I can do whatever I want with it."

That seemed to confuse him more.

"Wh--How can you own the place if you're not even running a business?"

"I just told you I own the place... Is that different from running it?"

"Technically, but... not really?"

"Then what's the problem?"

"I..."

He slumped into the counter, thankfully catching his head before hitting the counter again.

"Do you even turn a profit?"

He asked. I shrugged,

"You'd have to ask Meryl."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, getting up.

"Does she know you don't even turn the register on?"

"Probably."

"'Probably'?"

"If she gets upset about it, she hasn't told me."

He groaned, downing back a good portion of the coffee. He got a good few swallows in, more than I would've been comfortable with if I'd been trying the same thing. He pulled the cup from his mouth with a sigh, talking again.

"Well, what's your name?"

"Do you really have to--"

"--Right, the name of this place is 'Smokeshine's', fair. If Meryl's in next time then I'll let her know you need to know how to turn the register on."

"'Kay."

I shrugged.

"You're not... worried about that?"

"Why would I be? I own the place."

The realization that I more lived at the place than really worked there dawned squarely in the wide look on his face. A second one shortly followed, though.

"So... you just give out free coffee?"

"Most of the time."

"Most of--"

"Meryl knows how to turn on the register when she's here."

He took another concerningly long drink of his coffee, smacking his lips. He looked to the side in that stupid plan-forming way that humans do. I raised my hand to stop him.

"Just don't abuse it. I'm apathetic, but I'm not naive."

He raised a hand back, easing off of the plan-forming look. Probably out of being done with it, rather than actually deciding against it.

"Depends on how good the wifi is here."

Huh. At least he was honest about it. Shame I was about to punch a hole in it. I couldn't help the smug grin forming on my face.

"Register's Meryl's job, the wifi's mine."

It almost dropped when I didn't see him flinch.

"So even though it looks like it shouldn't, it'll work?"

Damnit. My smile dropped.

"Fine, let's see you get in without the password."

"You didn't set one, did you?"

Damnit. He was about earning the lair in the corner he was trying to set up. I put on a poker frown.

"You'll just have to wait and s--"

"I connected outside."

"B-Bullshit."

"Bestgoat27."

I groaned all the way over to the far end of the counter, slamming my head into the same spot on the bar with enough force to make the latte pitcher jump. The college kid too, from the sound of his wince.

"...any reason for over there?"

"Meryl said to quit doing it near her and to go do it over there, so I do. Plus this part's real wood."

"Uh-huh."

He said with a pursed nod.

"Remind me never to get between you and your favorite block of wood."

"That block burned to a crisp years ago. And it was more of a plank. And had better bounce."

I couldn't help but smile at his renewed look of confusion.

"You know, I didn't expect you to actually have one."

"Yeah, I miss it."

"At least it explains the brain damage."

I let out a fake gasp,

"Racist."

"I'm not the one slamming my head into wood for fun."

"I'll have you know it's a religious practice. You ever seen another human do that thing where they point at their shoulders and then their face?"

He winced, lowering his voice to apologize.

"Oh, shit, sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"Relax, I'm messing with you."

He sighed in relief, and I stood up.

"Tell me your name and I'll try and write it on the cup next time."

"Zoidberg."

Weird for a human, but not the worst I'd herd. I put my hand forward.

"Probably Just gonna shorten that to Zee. Or Zoid."

He shook my hand with a playful laugh.

"Ah, no, it's actually--"

"Shouldn't have said Zoidberg."

"But it's not--"

"Sorry Zoid, but that's what's going on your cup now."

Still wish I'd learned his real name.