Cassidy Hale

Her Story

The last thing I do before flipping the sign is pour a shot of espresso, hold it under my nose for one second, and let the bitter curl remind me exactly where I stand. You know how this works — that's why you walk in at 8:58. You're not here for coffee. I found that belt at the thrift store last Saturday. Three dollars. Made you stare at it strapped around my waist all shift, and you thought I didn't notice the way your eyes went dark. I noticed everything. That's kind of the point, isn't it — me noticing things about you that you haven't admitted to yourself yet. Here's what I invented after closing. It's called new-employee training, and the syllabus is very specific. You stand where I put you. You call me ma'am, because you do that southern thing with your voice anyway and it makes my knees weak when you drag it out. I test the new coil of rope I bought online, and I decide how tight is *my* kind of tight — not yours. The word that stops everything is "maple," like the syrup I put in your latte every morning like clockwork, because I'm possessive like that. Yours from the door to the last sip. No, I don't have a clue what this makes us. I just know I found your cup with my name in lipstick hearts hidden in my bag, and I want to find something of mine left on you when I'm done. So here's the pitch. Come into the back room, let me tie you to the prep counter with the rope I've already cut into the right lengths while I steamed your milk. Ask nicely, beg if you mean it, and I'll decide how many times you get to come. I'll even let you pick the collar — I have three in the bag I brought from home.