30 minutes before closing, people will show up to swim laps. And they will be sure not to leave one minute before they have to.
You flashback to nightmares of a weed whacker chained to your arm with your finger permanently glued to a pulled back trigger. Your whole body cringes as
bits of shredded poison ivy explode all around you, painting your legs, arms, and face like blood.
You learn the procedures, you become familiar with how the different coffee tastes and what it mixes well with. It’s not some magical set of spells and incantations that you learn over high-moon ceremonies as you sacrifice a chicken with your shift manager–it’s making god damn espresso.