Coffeeshop Chronicles.

Roaster, on. Grinders, on. Batch brewer, on. Dishwasher, on. Dialing in the coffee is the highlight of my morning pre-opening routine. Jazz music, on.

The kind of coffee I brew finishes nice, clean and smooth. A little bit velvety. Nicely balanced.

I love early mornings here. The place is filling up slowly. A relaxed atmosphere is in the air. Sunlight slowly filters through the large windows, touching the whitewashed walls. The place feels warm.

Regular customers file in. Cappuccinos. Lattes. Americanos. Espressos. Specialty teas. Hot chocolates. To modulate the orders, I make the espressos first. 40 seconds a pop. Everything else takes longer. An easy going morning, almost like a Sunday. Casual even. Right up my alley. Small talk.

I sit down briefly to perform regular tasks. Ordering milks, liquors and ice creams. The Motown music playlist is vibing just right. My eyes dart across the room, implying that I know what I'm doing, eager for new orders.

I start to focus more on the routine around the coffee machine - proper distribution, back flushing, cleaning the screen to maintain the clarity of espresso. I clean the group heads every 40 minutes.

I consume liters of coffee per day. Trying to keep count would be a losing battle.

At 10 a.m, I sit down for a coffee break. I serve myself a cappuccino and a turkey club sandwich.

Back inside, I spend equal parts of my day Infront of and behind the coffee machine. The cutlery won't polish themselves. I'm hands on when it comes to every aspect of this business.

The afternoon shifters are right on time. I was starting to lose hearing in my left eye. Now onto the most annoying part of this job - counting money and splitting tips. I really, really enjoy working behind the coffee bar. But making money is important, right?

I sit for my lunch break - cream of squash soup. I could eat this for days. I'll wash it down with a strawberry slushy. The text comes in.

POV. I run a coffeeshop and I'm secretly an assassin. In my free time, I blog. Mostly about this coffee shop. Sometimes, about people. Today, my contract has turned out to be YOU. The basic of this (side) job is kill or be killed. If I don't kill you, they'll have someone else kill you and I. I'm sorry, but I'm not done living. I still have names to keep messing, and coffeeshop chronicles to pen. I'll admit that I've enjoyed the subtle moves you kept making on me while ordering your drinks but I had to stay professional. I'll miss your face, but  someone else can always me feel the way way you do.

Shit. You've caught me staring a little too long and hard at you. I whip out my pretend smile. The instruction said I keep it clean. I wonder why you're a target. It's not my place to wonder, just execute. I attach the silencer in readiness. 5 more minutes till you walk up to the POS to pay your dues. With my gun tucked into my side, I excuse myself and follow you out and into the dark alleyway. One shot to the head. That's as clean as it gets. 

Tomorrow will be just another day at the coffeeshop. I'm thinking of opening up the far corner to host live jazz bands. What do you think? 

But first, coffee.