I order an oat milk latte. The young barista behind the counter gets to work. The grinding of bean, the schlep of milk. Frothing. Steaming. She pours the coffee into my cup with little regard. Then onto the white stuff. Tap, tap, tap. The hot milk settles in its stainless steel jug. And then the ‘artista’ shows off her craft. Swirls and circles are released by precise and gentle fingers. The elixir rises in the cup until it reaches the brim. I am finally presented with a heart. The barista’s way of saying she cares, that she’s proud of her alchemy. I admire her work for all of three seconds. I need the coffee. Now. My lips vandalise the art. The oat milk is sweet and shrouds any hint of bitterness. The coffee is smooth and tasty. The caffeine rushes to my head. Wakes me up. Ignites my mind. A delicious start to the day. I’m now ready to face anything.
Oat milk Latte
