Our august years

There is a new guy working in the coffee shop downstairs. I’d say he’s in his fifties. The shirt that he was wearing was reminiscent of the kind my dad has: plain, thick, durable and basic. He took a while to ring in my order and when he handed me my change it was with hands that were more accustomed to carpentry than to serving coquettishly ordered drinks to diminutive young women trying to affect some level of professionalism. He apologized for the delay and said it was his first day.
Stuff like that drives me nuts.