A customer gets her drink and immediately starts inspecting it like she’s reviewing evidence.

She turns the cup.

Looks at the caramel.

Then looks back at the barista.

“Why does the caramel drizzle only go one direction?”

She studies it again.

“It’s supposed to look premium. This looks rushed.”

The barista says nothing.

She folds her arms.

“I want the district manager’s number.”

He stays completely calm.

“Of course. I’ll just need your name and number so they can contact you directly.”

That changes everything.

Now she’s happy.

She gives him her full name.

Then her phone number.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Making sure he writes down every digit.

He nods, writes everything in a small black notebook, and closes it.

Then he places it on the counter.

The cover reads:

DEATH NOTE

The confidence disappears from her face.

The barista looks back up at her.

Same tired expression.

Same calm voice.

“I’ll make sure it gets handled.”

Suddenly, she doesn’t look quite as excited about speaking to the district manager anymore.

Just another episode of Barista Trauma.