Working weekends at a café isn’t supposed to feel like survival mode. But one woman’s rage turned my simple shift into a public spectacle I’ll never forget. Too bad she didn’t see it coming.

My weekend shifts at Morning Roast Café weren’t exactly glamorous, but they helped me pay for school supplies and the occasional midnight burger run.

Most customers were decent, though some seemed to think our little coffee shop was the front lines of a caffeine war. Still, I’d learned to smile through complaints, fake laughs, and micro-aggressions. I thought I’d seen it all — until she walked in.

It was just after ten, that dead zone between morning rush and lunch. I was wiping down the counter when she strutted in, all heels and attitude. Her sunglasses were still on indoors like she was shielding herself from the mediocrity around her. She scanned the café like a disapproving queen.

“One medium Americano,” she said, not looking up from her phone.

“Sure! Would you like room for cream?” I asked, punching in her order.