George’s official title was a barista, but he felt like that was just a fancy way to say bartender. Unlike what the first title implies, the last time he cared about foam art was when he accidentally left the tap running a bit too long and had to clean up the beer before it could make the floor sticky. He also couldn’t remember the last time he served a non-alcoholic drink other than water (at his own request rather than the customer’s), but as long as he was getting paid, he couldn’t really complain.
The bell on the door rang, just audible over the hum of other customers sitting and standing around, and George took the time he knew they’d take to reach the bar to straighten up his shirt. It didn’t matter who it was necessarily, but he always got the best tips when it seemed like he had his life together somewhat. George pouted as he noticed stain from some colorful drink he served earlier that tinted the top of his his light skinny jeans, trying to rub it out. It was then he realized that whoever had entered last had now taken residence during in front of him at the bar, and probably had been watching his fruitless pursuit to clean himself up for a short while now. A sheepish chuckle was tugged out of him as he let his shirt go to look up at the person, tilting his head to the side slightly.
“First drink’s on me if you pretend you didn’t just witness that?”
