I met Alana five years ago when I was fifteen, working as a desk clerk for the local I98 Michigan branch of Star Bucks. It was one of those rainy, dark sort of days where its predictable that nothing much is likely to happen, with the heavy dark rain pelting the windows which were otherwise used as glass display cabinets for posters advertising the newest Latte Mixes, the updated Java. At noon, when the number of customers had barely risen above six, it was no abnormal that I jumped several inches at the first sign of life. I was after all, the only clerk on duty. The manager took Thursdays off. Alana was standing in the frame of the door, soaked like she had walked the distance from the city. She was not smiling, and instead appeared quite misserable. I stood, dumbstruck for a moment, not sure exactly what to do. The door shut behind her and she walked at a lopsidded gaite toward the counter. I wondored if she was hurt and yet said nothing. "I'll like a black. Just black," she said. Now this was one of the unusual things I noticed. Most people see "Star Bucks," and think "Complicated. I want to see really how good this guy is." But Alana wanted it black. Just black. Plain and simple. I turned around preparing to heat the coffee when she said out of the blue, "But for pete's sake, if I'm being this nice, at least make it fresh." I turned around for a moment. She had her elbows resting on the counter, her face half hidden under her hood which was pulled all the way up. "Will do," I said, feeling foolish and proceeding to pour new beans into the pot. I handed her the coffee and she took it without much thought, tossing five or six coins on the counter. Most people who come into Star Bucks leave right away, like they've always got somewhere better to go. But Alana suprised me again. She took the coffee in her mittened hand and sat down at the table furthest away from the door and closet to the counter. Feeling that much more stupid, I said without giving myself time to think it over, "you need anything else? You look wet." Alana looked at me and now I was expecting some rude biast response, but all she said was, "no..thank you." I could see that she was crying, silver tears were falling down her mocha coloured skin. I didn't stop myself. I hurried from behind the desk and sat down across from her at the table. "Is something the problem?" I asked. But the same response was applied. "No." So that was it, plain and simple in more ways than one.
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