Megan Gileza

On the Regular

 

From my place behind the syrup stacks I see

a skinny guy who’s called James

walk into the shop. Before he even orders

 

I slide my fingers around

the slim, shiny handle

of a steel milk pitcher and pull

 

it towards me,

splashing

in twelve ounces of milk

with one hand

while reaching across

the counter for a cup

 

with the other.

I place the cup in position

and press a button

that sets the machine

groanwhirdrip-ing into action,

 

then curl my palm

around the shiny round knob

of the espresso machine and pull

while still holding

the pitcher, now gently

rocking it

methodically

up and down

the steaming wand,

feeding it

air

for one, two,

three, four,

five,

six seconds,

 

watching

and coaxing

as it bubbles and foams,

almost overflowing,

but not quite.

 

I shake the foam

out into the cup until

it forms a perfect, snowy dome peeking

up over the lip of the cup.

 

I call out: cappuccino,

extra hot, extra shot.

 

The skinny guy

called James

grabs it and nods at me

before he walks away.