What goes through my head as I wait in line behind you at Starbucks

Hipster boy, I'm watching you. Wiry thin, with your sister's jeans and inappropriate use of winter plaid on a summer's day, you look like the exhumed corpse of a lumberjack who had died in a freak dryer incident. From behind you in line at the Thayer Street Starbucks, I watch you in disgust. Effortlessly ordering that grande light soy 3-pump dark cherry iced coffee with two shots of espresso, you confuse even the well-versed barista who has to ask you to repeat your order. Twice.

You arrogant, sad bitch, daring to confuse Autumn, my favorite of all the Starbucks baristas. I know her name is not really Autumn, and her natural hair color is not really Cerulean, but that gives you no right to harass her, or reduce her to a torn pile of rebellious ink and assorted piercings. Neither are you entitled to do so simply because you nonchalantly wave around your gold-membership personalized starbucks card, entitling you to your free beverage every 15 visits. No one fucking cares that 30 visits has granted you this "privilege", you elitist scum. No one fucking cares that, unlike the rest, your syrups and soys come free. No one fucking cares, including me, you smug prick, because you are not the only one with this gold-carded membership into Starbucks aristocracy. No, Hipster lumberjack, you are not.

"Autumn", I announce gently, passing my gaze at you, then back at Autumn, "I'll have the usual", to which she merely replies with a knowing nod. Gracefully, in one quick movement, she constructs my grande light soy 3-pump dark cherry iced coffee with two shots of espresso. Another nod, and she unflinchingly adds another shot of espresso. We look at each other and smile for a moment, then in unison shift our eyes towards you.

At first, you do not feel the pressure of our combined gaze. In fact, you do not even notice that she had made my drink first, before yours. 2 minutes later I cough suggestively, and you look up from your iPhone 4. Pocketing the phone into its organic sleeve, you consider my expression as a threat, but only briefly, whilst Autumn begins to make your beverage. There is no grace in creating your coffee, pal, because Autumn doesn't know you and, after insulting her profession, neither does she like you. No amount of nodding can allow you an extra shot of espresso because, frankly, you don't know her like I do. No one does. You will wait for your drink, branded by the memory of my burning stare, while I walk away victoriously.

Hipster boy, I have a feeling we'll meet again in this, here, Thayer Street Starbucks, and when we do you, you will not be so lucky.