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Café Coluding

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 Steve stands at the counter, yet again, trying to tell the barista, again, that his name was Steve Rogers. "Steve Rogers. S-T-E-V-E  R-O-G-E-R-S."

   
“K’ man,” replies the barista, who looks like he doesn’t care. He's going to forget. Steve knows this and it infuriates him. How many times does he have to go through this? The only time he has to himself is the short walk to Starbucks and his coffee, but every time he gets his soy Frappuccino with “S Robbers” written on it a little piece of him dies on the inside. Not today though, he had told the barista, not today. Or so he thought.
   
“S. Robbers?” OH COME ON! Steve’s head shrilled. Steve walked right up to the counter, red-faced in embarrassment. “Are you S. Robbers?” asks the barista stupidly (Steve was feeling mean). But, as his mother taught him, be nice because being mean isn't worthy of his time.

“Yes, I am S. Robbers.” Steve says through gritted teeth. He pays politely, and without looking at the barista, throws his change into the tip jar, because he knows that the man probably is just stressed and he needs the money anyway. With that, he turns on his heel and walks out, his thoughts silently berating the barista for a whole six blocks. Steve walks in a fast clip, exasperated, the Frappuccino tight in his grip. He pauses, and six people bump into him from all sides. New York, you know. Apologizing furiously, Steve moves out of the way of the oncoming crowd and, without a second thought, throws his frappe in the trash, a weight falling off of his shoulders. Suddenly, his watch beeps, alerting him that his lunch break is up. But Steve has a better idea.

“I’m gonna find a new coffee place, and not another Starbucks. Something cheap but good.” he mutters to himself, receiving strange looks from everyone who heard him. Steve walks for about two miles, which happens in New York, a lot (Steve has many run down shoes for that reason), until he sees a new place. It's small, a nook in between two office buildings, with a chalkboard sign reading: "Coffee, Sandwiches, Frappes, and more!"  Through the windows he can see cozy little chairs and sofas just waiting to be sat upon. A man, likely an employee, is wiping down the counter, he is the only one in there. The scene is perfect, just the right amount of no-one-being-in-there-silence he liked.

Steve is sold the minute he sees the font on the sign. He strides right in, a small chiming bell alerting everyone in the café, well just the barista, that Steve Rogers has arrived.