If you ever want to see civilization crumble, just step inside a coffee shop on a Saturday morning.
That’s when the true chaos happens—people running on fumes, barking orders, and silently judging anyone who hesitates at the menu.
I’m one of the regulars. I know what I want the second I walk in. Triple-shot oat milk latte, no questions asked.
The place was packed today, lines curling toward the door, baristas hustling like their lives depended on it.
I could feel the tension building around me—kids whining, people fidgeting in line, and the occasional exasperated sigh from someone checking their watch.
I’d placed my usual order, ready to grab it and leave, when life threw me a curveball.
The bathroom called, and let’s just say it wasn’t a question of if—it was now.
Of course, that’s when I heard it:
“Triple-shot oat milk latte for Natalie!”
Perfect timing. Except I couldn’t grab it just yet.
I glanced toward the restroom and made a quick decision: It’ll be fine. No one’s going to take it.
People know better than to steal unattended drinks—right?
“Finders Keepers”
The bathroom was quick—thankfully—but when I got back to the pickup counter, the cup with my name on it was gone.
Just like that.
No latte, no explanation, nothing but an empty counter and a few stray napkins.
I glanced around, frowning. Maybe one of the baristas accidentally moved it?
But then I spotted her. The culprit.
A woman in a too-nice coat, wrangling two restless kids, stood at the corner of the coffee shop.
And there it was, in her hand—my drink.
The cup was unmistakable. Triple-shot latte, oat milk, “Natalie” scrawled across the side in lazy Sharpie.
She didn’t even try to hide it. In fact, she handed the cup to her older kid, saying, “Here, share this with your brother.”
The younger kid took a big slurp, then gagged dramatically, shoving the cup at his sibling like it was poison.
“It’s gross!” he shouted, drawing curious looks from nearby tables.
The woman gave him a dismissive wave. “It’s fine. You’ll get used to it.”
I stared, stunned for a second. Did she really just steal my drink?
“Uh, excuse me,” I said, walking up to her. “I think that’s my latte. The one with my name on it.”
I kept my tone polite—no need to escalate things right away.
She turned to me, her expression completely unbothered, like I was interrupting her in the middle of something important.
“It was just sitting there,” she said with a shrug. “No one was drinking it.”
“Yeah,” I said slowly, “because I was in the restroom.”
I pointed to the Sharpie scrawl. “See? It says ‘Natalie.’ That’s me.”
Her eyebrows lifted, but not with remorse—more like mild annoyance. “Well, you should’ve grabbed it sooner.”
I blinked, trying to wrap my head around her logic. “Right, but… it’s still my drink.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Look, they can make you another one. My kids are thirsty, and I don’t have time to wait in that line.”
Wait… What?
At this point, people around us had started to pay attention.
A couple of guys in line were watching with amused smirks, and I could see the barista behind the counter suppressing a grin.
I knew I should’ve let it go—it’s just a coffee, right?
But it was the principle of the thing. Stealing someone’s latte because you don’t want to wait?
The kids weren’t having a great time, either. The younger one whined louder, wiping his tongue on his sleeve like he was trying to get rid of the taste.
“This is disgusting, Mom! I hate coffee!”
The older one took a sip, grimaced, and shoved the cup back toward her. “What’s wrong with it?” he demanded.
The woman sighed, visibly annoyed now. “It’s just a little strong.”
She took a sip herself, and immediately regretted it. Her face twisted in surprise as the bitter espresso flavor hit her full force.
“What the—” She coughed into her sleeve, glaring at the offending cup as if it had personally betrayed her. “What kind of drink is this?”
I smiled, my frustration quickly turning into quiet amusement. “That would be a triple-shot oat milk latte.”
Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Triple?”
“Yep,” I said cheerfully. “Three shots of espresso. Keeps me going.”
Her kids’ faces crumpled in unison, both of them now groaning loudly like they’d been poisoned.
“Mom, why’d you make us drink that?” the younger one whined, stomping his feet.
The woman turned on me, eyes blazing. “What kind of psychopath orders three shots of espresso?”
I gave her my sweetest smile. “Me.”
She stared at me, the cup still in her hand, as if trying to comprehend how things had gone so horribly wrong.
Around us, quiet chuckles rippled through the shop. The people in line were clearly enjoying the show, some of them openly grinning now.
One guy even whispered, “That’s what you get.”
Her kids, meanwhile, were spiraling. “I feel weird!” one of them whined, clutching his head.
“Why’s it so bitter?” the other one complained, still wiping his tongue like it was on fire.
“You’ll live,” I said, crossing my arms. “Just maybe think twice before you grab someone else’s drink next time.”
The Aftertaste of Regret
The woman was stuck. Her kids were whining louder with every passing second, the bitter espresso still lingering on their tongues.
One clutched his stomach dramatically while the other wiped his tongue on his sleeve like he could scrub the taste away.
“Mom, my head feels funny!” one of them groaned.
“I feel sick,” the younger one added, tears welling up in his eyes.
She glared at the cup in her hand as if the drink had personally attacked her.
“How could anyone drink this garbage?” she muttered, looking at me with a mix of confusion and disgust.
I just shrugged. “It’s an acquired taste.”
The crowd was fully invested now, people leaning in closer, some quietly giggling behind their phones.
It was impossible not to see the irony—she stole a drink to save time, and it blew up in her face.
The barista behind the counter smirked and came over, clearly enjoying the show.
“Everything alright over here?” he asked, voice dripping with mock concern.
Before I could respond, Karen—because at this point, that’s exactly who she was—snapped at him.
“Can’t you just make my kids something they’ll actually drink? I don’t have time for this!”
The barista arched a brow, the corners of his mouth twitching with barely contained amusement.
“Sure thing. You can get back in line, and we’ll make whatever you like.” He gestured toward the now even longer line snaking toward the door.
Karen’s jaw clenched so tight I thought she might crack a tooth. “This is ridiculous! I don’t have time to wait!”
“Neither do we,” someone in line muttered, which earned a few chuckles from the crowd.
One of the kids tugged on her sleeve, face scrunched in discomfort. “Mom, I feel weird. Can we go?”
Karen looked around, realizing she was outnumbered, out of options, and out of excuses.
Her plan to skip the line had backfired spectacularly, and now she was standing in front of a room full of people who were all silently judging her—and a few not-so-silently.
A Bitter Farewell
Realizing she wasn’t going to win this one, Karen thrust the cup toward me like it was radioactive.
“Fine. Take your stupid drink.”
I gave her an innocent smile. “Oh, no need. You’ve already enjoyed it.”
I couldn’t help myself. The words just slipped out, but they were worth it for the satisfaction of seeing her face turn bright red.
She muttered something under her breath—probably not appropriate for children’s ears—before turning on her heel.
“Come on, we’re leaving,” she barked at her kids, snatching up their jackets and dragging them toward the exit.
Her youngest, still scrubbing at his tongue, wailed, “This coffee tastes like garbage!”
His voice echoed through the shop, sending a ripple of laughter through the crowd.
The older kid stomped after them, still clutching his stomach. “I hate coffee! Why’d you give us that?”
Karen didn’t respond—she was too busy storming toward the door, her kids trailing behind like two tiny, caffeinated tornadoes.
As she shoved the door open with her shoulder, one last burst of laughter erupted from the customers still watching.
A few people clapped quietly, and one person whispered, “Karma.”
The door swung shut behind her with a satisfying finality, leaving the shop buzzing with quiet amusement. Poetic justice, brewed fresh.
A Drink Well Earned
The barista turned to me, still grinning. “I’ll make you a fresh one, Natalie. On the house.”
“Thanks,” I said, finally letting out the laugh I’d been holding in. “No rush. I think I’ll savor this moment for a bit.”
I found a seat by the window, settling in with the warmth of knowing I didn’t even have to say much—she did all the work herself.
A few of the other customers gave me knowing smiles as they went back to their business, the excitement fading but leaving behind that shared sense of satisfaction you only get when you see someone get exactly what they deserve.
As the barista slid a fresh latte across the counter, I took my first sip—smooth, strong, perfect.