I had barely stepped into the café when it happened.
The barista—a bubbly, overly-friendly girl with a name tag that said “Luna” and a smile that could melt glaciers—greeted me a little too enthusiastically.
“Good morning! Shen, right? I remember your order—double espresso, no sugar!”
I blinked. “Uh… yeah. Thanks.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw my wife’s neck snap toward us like a hawk spotting prey.
“Wow,” she said slowly, walking up beside me. “She remembers your order, huh?”
Luna smiled. “He’s a regular.”
My wife returned the smile. But it wasn’t a smile—it was a warning label wrapped in cherry lip gloss.
“Oh? That’s so sweet. I’m his wife. I usually make his coffee at home, but sometimes he likes his caffeine with extra compliments.”
I was now sipping fear instead of espresso.
—
We sat in a quiet corner. Or rather, we tried to.
She kept glancing toward the counter. Then at me. Then at the cup.
“What?” I finally asked.
“I just find it fascinating how quickly she remembered your preferences.”
“She remembers everyone’s—”
“She didn’t remember mine.”
“That’s because you ordered a ‘pumpkin-caramel-oatmilk-sadness-latte’ and changed your mind four times.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Do you like her?”
“What? No!”
“Did you smile at her?”
“She told me my eyebrows were symmetrical, I panicked!”
“So you’re saying you did smile at her?”
“It’s called being polite!”
She leaned in close, voice soft and deadly.
“If you ever smile at another woman’s coffee again, I’ll mix salt into your shampoo.”
—
Back home, she was still weirdly quiet.
I made the mistake of scrolling Instagram next to her.
A girl popped up in an ad wearing a floral dress.
She squinted.
“Who’s she?”
“I don’t know! That’s an ad.”
“Mmhmm. Looks your type.”
“My type is ‘argumentative gremlin with zero chill’ and you invented it.”
She looked smug for exactly two seconds before pouncing on my phone and changing my lock screen to a picture of her holding a knife while smiling.
“It’s aesthetic,” she said sweetly. “Like a warning. Or a prayer.”
—
That night, while brushing her hair, she mumbled something.
“You didn’t flirt with her, right?”
I sighed and hugged her from behind.
“Of course not. You’re the only one I flirt with. The only one I fight with. The only one I want to punch me in my sleep.”
She grinned in the mirror.
“I’m crazy, huh?”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Still love me?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
She laughed and leaned into my chest.
“Good. Because if I ever catch someone flirting with you again, I’ll bury her with a floral dress and a loyalty card.”
—
To be continued…..
