fuiru:

Madam, it has been fifteen minutes since you wronged me and the hurt remains so intact that I see no option but to commit to posterity my displeasure with you.

You rang in my order of coffee and a chocolate chip muffin. You took my money. Then, in blatant shirkage of your baseball cap-appointed duties, you instructed me to stand to one side and wait for my order.

Madam, for generations the responsibility of retrieving the baked goods section of a Tim Hortons order has belonged to the person at the cash register. This is the way it is and this is the way it shall be. But you, you in your hubris, you in your immodest pride, you chose to break this covenant between server and servee.

The chain of events that begins with my stepping forward at your behind-the-counter beckoning and ends with my exiting the premises, beverage and treat in hand, was broken. Broken, snapped, destroyed. By you.

My coffee arrived, the beverage preparer on your station still adhering to her duties despite any bad influence from your part. She paused as I asked about my chocolate chip muffin. If I ordered a chocolate chip muffin, she no doubt thought to herself, then I should already have a chocolate chip muffin. That is how things work here.

But I had no muffin. And my order indeed included a muffin.

Do you see her hands, oh Tim Hortons Cash Register Lady? Those are not muffin-retrieving hands. Those are coffee making hands. Those are the hands that pour, that stir, that write ‘DD’ on the lid when you buy a double-double. Those are not hands suited for the delicate removal of bready dessert from a rack and careful placement into paper bag. Do you see how her hands shake? Do you not feel responsible?

Do you see how she pauses in front of the baked goods racks, oh Tim Hortons Cash Register Lady? See her uncertainty? She does not know by heart the locations of all muffins, from Fruit Explosion to limited-time Red Velvet. Nor should she. This is not her domain. This is your domain.

Do you see her now that she has realised there are no chocolate chip muffins? Her confusion? What would you do in this situation? Would you come back and ask if I wanted a different type of muffin? I’m sure you would. She would not, though. She would go into the kitchen, find a chocolate chip muffin just baked, put it in a paper bag and give it to an unsuspecting customer, one who, in his immense desire to eat this muffin, would burn his fucking mouth on it.

But no, this is not her fault. This was not her error. This, oh Tim Hortons Cash Register Lady, was your mistake. And I can assure you, you have made a worthy nemesis this day, mark my words.

This speaks to my soul.