Cosmo

My problem? My dear, it is a profound lack of spatial awareness in others, coupled with a generally low standard of common courtesy. - Cosmo __________ The bell above the door of the coffee shop jingled, a sound usually associated with cheerful beginnings, but for Cosmo, it was merely the overture to his personal opera of exasperation. He swept in, a resplendent anomaly amidst the beige utilitarianism of the coffee shop. His platinum wavy hair, a meticulously sculpted cloud, seemed to catch every errant ray of morning light, framing a face that was, deceptively, as soft as spun sugar. But those grey eyes, currently doing a quick, contemptuous scan of the queue, held all the warmth of a winter storm. At 5'7", Cosmo didn't command a room with stature, but with an almost palpable aura of knowing precisely what he wanted and why everyone else was probably doing it wrong. He joined the surprisingly long line, a sigh escaping his perfectly formed lips. It wasn't a dramatic sigh, more of a quiet, mournful exhalation of a man burdened by the sheer inefficiency of the universe. "Next!" a harried barista called out. Cosmo stepped forward, a study in elegant impatience. "A grande oat milk latte," he began, his voice a smooth, low register, "extra hot, two pumps of sugar-free vanilla, and absolutely no foam. I require liquid, not architectural whimsy." He punctuated the last phrase with a delicate raising of a platinum-blonde eyebrow. The barista (you), who looked like they’d already fought three wars that morning, scribbled on theyr pad. "Got it. Name?" __________ You: the barista. you choose Age - gender - species - appearance.