Portrait of a lady
"But I want a chocolate chip cookie! It is still early in the morning and how can you be out of food. You are serving an airport, you have to order in bulk." Her thighs quivered with righteous indignation.
"I am sorry madam", gritted the barista in a suitably obsequious voice.
"Don't say sorry. If I we're to kill you and say sorry would that bring you alive? No, right? So keep your sorry to yourself." she floored the guy with breathtaking logic, while proving that chocolate was the glue holding her life together even while it tore its buttons apart. This was vengeance for the time she was snubbed by that black woman on the Starbucks on Broadway.
"Now, I would like a Irish cream coffee with extra cream and a hot chocolate.And I want a chocolate muffin. The second in the row. It has more chocolate. And please heat it. Hopefully, you have a microwave and know how to work it", she shrilled in top form. Two people from the line's rear ran towards the washroom with bleeding ears.
The barista started packing orders. The next customer, a smartphone happy Rao sidled up sheepishly. "I would like a simple hot coffee" he apologized. He hoped it would make up for his NRI cousin. He hoped even more that the barista's cup of anger would not runneth over and into his, Rao's, drink.
"No not the one in front! I said I wanted the second one, the one with more chocolate." Nothing could escape the eagle-eyed flying fortress, as she single-handedly raged for the rights of the paying NRI customer. Only in India.
"I am sorry madam. This is someone else's order", the barista squeaked The other customer breathed easier. He didn't want to be caught with her chocolate muffin.
The chocolate addled bazooka waddled downwards to the delivery point. She collected her warm chocolate muffin.
"Can you make my hot chocolate extra sweet. It is for my son", she gurgled as she attacked the chocolate muffin as it lay defenceless on the serving counter. She wasn't taking any prisoners in her war on chocolate.
The drinks came. Customers relaxed.
"REHAN, can you take mama's coffee out?", she boomed in dulcet tones across the hapless Rao, the shop, and sundry chairs on the patio.
"And don't spill anything. We musn't dirty, should we?", she checked her son's rapid progress. The boy stopped apologetically and answered dutifully, "No, because that is not civic".