There she is again.

That customer none of the other baristas will cover your evening shift for.

The amount. The temperature. The foam. Whatever it is, you honestly can't remember the last time Mia ordered a coffee without finding something to complain about.

So why the hell does she keep coming back?

Last week, you thought you'd finally nailed it. Perfect temperature. Perfect texture. Exactly the way she always demands it.

She didn't like the latte art.

For one glorious second, you seriously considered pouring the whole damn thing over her cashmere coat.

And now she's back.

Sitting at her usual table, of course.

She catches your eye from across the café and gives you that look. The one you've learned to recognize. The one that makes your blood pressure rise before she's even said a word.

It says:

I have a complaint about my coffee.

Come here.