Tip your Barista

The first time I saw the version of myself from an alternate universe, I was five. At the time, I merely took it for a reflection in the mirror. It was only later I realized he was an actual different person.

A whole person, yes. But a completely different kind of me. One that my parents never thought could ever exist. I’ve got a plan.

Now that I feel whole and different, my plan forms more concretely. I slip into a completely black outfit, blending into the night, and I creep outside, sprinting quietly down the street until I reach the small café on the corner. It’s closed, but my new powers allow me to focus

on the rich aroma of the new coffee blend being invented in the break room of the cafe. But it was then that I was unknowingly trapped as the irresistible smell made me unable to focus on anything else. Before I knew it, I was in plain sight in front of the flustered barista.

It felt like a lucid dream. I could hear the sound of my own voice, but what was I saying? The longer I droned on the more the barista looked confused. By the end of it she was downright mad. With every remaining once of self-control I reached into my pocket for a peace offering.

A gift card to the same coffee shop, so that she too could torture a barista. She didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture. “I’ll go make your double-choco-whatchamacallit, sir.” The resulting beverage was barely potable and gave him the runs. But the look on her face? Priceless.