How am I going to do this?

I can't do this.

Pretending is so fake...no, insane.

I do not fit as a bit actor in this polite play.

What is the point?

This is life?

This is not life.

“Large mocha, extra shot, Irene.”

Such purpose.

Rude people.

Nasty people.

Nice people.

Damaged people.

Honest people.

True people.

Evil people.

All people pretending to be just like the fake posture of one another. Everyone wanting to be the same in their insincerity.

“Non-fat vanilla latte for Theresa.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

Sincere. Sweet. Beautiful. A look into her vibrant eyes and there is a passion, controlled to fit in and be like the rest, but she's clearly something more.

“Black. Jim.”

The brown stain on a 6 day old pair of tighty-whitey underwear, but I am polite, pretending he is just another guy like all of the rest.

I am going to snap.

What's the point?

I know it's my fault. If I were to sit on the sofa and eat chips and drink beer like a good little fat, ignorant consuming machine, I could more easily play my bit part in life's boring drama. When I return to my home and spend hours training myself for unpromised physical combat and spend the down time preparing my mind for competition that is nature, I am refining the tools gifted by nature, and nature yearns that they be used to test and improve skills. If I were to spend my time watching uberhomoerotic musicals while eating ice cream sandwiched between rich, chocolate, fudgy brownies, I could be happy spectating...but “ifs” are such a waste of time. We cannot be other than who we are.

“Fat double. Oshi.”

Pretend.

I must pretend.

Pretend!

Stop asking why.

Just play your part.

The lines are simple.

They're all the same.

We're all the same.

You can be one of them.

Pretend.

Just pretend!

“Don't be an idiot, just order!” the edgy guy at the counter told the pretty young woman looking at the board detailing the coffees that are supposed to have exotic stories about their journeys from warm, moist parts of the globe and their various roasts — marketing for the masses...if they only knew, but who wants the curtain pulled back.

“I don't know what to get,” she answered innocently, meekly.

“You're so fuckin' stupid! I'll order.”

“K.”

“Did you want tea of coffee?” I said loudly to the sweet candy from my distant side of the bar, catching a glare of disapproval from my effeminate co-worker transacting the order at the register.

The man and woman both looked my way, him scowling, she smiling.

“I got it,” he said firmly, paying for their order.

“Tea, actually,” she sang.

“Well...” I began before being so rudely interrupted.

“I said I got it,” he told her sternly, cutting me a mad dog, back off look.

“Excuse me, sir, but I was speaking to the nice woman.”

She began to glow.

“I feel like tea, actually. I do. Do you have any suggestions?”

“We have a blueberry tea I enjoy.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“You have to really like blueberries?”

“I do.” She turned toward her friend, looking him in the eyes.

“Change that. She'll have the tea Mr. Friendly over there is talking about.”

“Mr. Friendly,” heshe chuckled.

The man thought heshe was laughing at him and that he was the butt of an inside joke. You could see him tense up and his eyes begin to twitch.

As they finished the transaction at the register, the sweet candy made her way to my processing station, where her tea had been bumped to the top of the list.

“Thank you for your suggestion,” she whispered, trying to conceal she was talking to me from her partner.

“What are you two talking about?” he asked, scurrying up behind her.

She did not reply, but looked at me with a personalized smile.

“And for you,” I passed the tea over the counter to her waiting, frail hands.

“Thank you.”

I waited for her to taste the blueberry tea.

“That's wonderful. Thank you.”

“Anytime. If you ever have any other questions, please feel free to ask.”

“Come on, dude, back off. Where's my drink?”

“It's coming.”

I went about taking up the queue.

“Mona, skinny latte.”

“Thank you.”

Nice smile. Sincerely friendly.

The toilet paper coloring crayon was getting angry.

“Christine. Tea and a black.”

“Dude!? Where's my coffee?” he snapped.

“Don't be an idiot,” I quickly replied, smirking at him.

“What did you say?” he challenged.

“Just repeating what you said to her a few minutes ago.”

“Dude, mind your own fucking business and get me my coffee, and if she has any questions about your coffee, she'll ask the coffee man.” His voice dripped with condescension.

“Um, dude, she can ask me anything she wants, I know something more than the grounded desires of coffee.”

“Right. Just give me my drink so I can get out of this place before I kick your ass.”

“Are you promising that if I don't give you your coffee you are going to kick my ass?”

“Dude, just give me my fuckin' coffee!!!”

“Here you go, sir,” the generous and kind voice of a young female co-worker politely offered.

“Thank you. You need to do something about this dick.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Though she was friendly to thee, her expression made it clear she was exasperated by my clearly appropriate actions. “Take a break,” she ordered.

A break? Yes. A bit player in a drama where the lead actors are overtly impressed with their pompous ignorance.

“Thank you, again,” the sweet candy purred.

“Come on! Stop talking to that idiot!”

I shook my head in disapproval, while making myself a coffee from beans voluntarily ending their lives before boarding first class flight halfway around the world. After removing my apron, I took my coffee and went outside to vacuum up the fresh air and clear my anguished mind. I refrained from saying anything to either of the perfect couple as I walked past them.

Standing in front of the store, I had to make a decision. I could position myself to antagonize him as he left the shop or I could stop wasting energy on the Stus of the universe. I chose the illusion of peace and went off to the side and purposefully placed the chiseled mass of the back of good shouldering to the door.

Sipping the coffee, I cringed at the bitterness. “Appropriate,” I thought, laughing to myself.

“Asshole,” I heard a voice whisper behind me in a whine.

“Come on, let's go,” sweet candy told her mate.

I wanted to turn around, but why. I do not want to get fired...not yet, at least. I hate my life, but I tell myself I am working toward something, toward stability. I don't know, but physical confrontation with such a fool is a waste of time and goodness...and a good time. Yet, I cannot stop myself from saying something, from stirring the stew a couple rounds. “Have a great day!” I said aloud, raising my cup to the voices behind.

The voices began to bicker in a hushed tone. There would be no confrontation, but always be prepared. I placed my cup on the table, closed my eyes and listened for footsteps or some other sign of an assault headed my way. Nothing.

It began to quiet. I noticed a bird singing. I picked up my cap and enjoyed the bitterness. Just like life, it may be bitter but it's mine and can still be enjoyed.

I cannot help but ponder what has happened in the life of the sweet and tasty that made her think that such a “man”, a toilet tool, was the appropriate companion. It is not my desire to rescue ones from themselves, but the candy looked so tasty sweet...but it would have undoubtedly been sour once completely unwrapped.

Damn, this coffee is bitter crap...cream and sugar will give it a whole different experience, and that is the choice.