“Stick ‘em up.”

Kris nodded to the cashier with all the authority she could muster despite being only 28 percent sure of her plan.

“Did you say sticky bun?” the young barista asked.

The moment hung in the air between them, both women, one 16 years past 50, the other 16 years past birth.  Kris stood in her purple rain jacket with the hood up over her head, zipped as far as it would go, hiding nothing of her face and the icicle blue eyes that still shined past the dulling skin.  She could have taken this as the time to back out, eat a sticky bun and enjoy some coffee.  No harm, no foul.

But Kris did not wake up every day for the past month dreaming of the sweets and treats that satiated her friends.  Her entire life she had been the rule follower, the one who ate according to the government food pyramid and always used her blinker.  She lived alone, extra alone since her poodle passed away last year.  There was nothing in her life that got her heart pumping.

“No, I said, stick ‘em up.  Your hands.”

Confusion remained firmly entrenched in the barista’s face.  Her own eyes, the almond kind, stared back with the narrowing of someone trying to read a sign that is a little too far away.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Another chance.  Kris’s mind dashed back to earlier in the week when her dreams led her to surf her 148 channels for one she never watched.  She landed on a movie called The Boondock Saints that featured two brothers who did all sorts of things she would have previously considered horrible.  But those brothers would not take a young lady’s lack of comprehension as an opportunity to abandon their plan.  They would stick a vastly overpowered gun right into her nose and make their demands louder.

“I said, put your hands in the air young lady!  I AM ROBBING YOU!”

There it was.  The release.  She had craved it since the moment the crime first popped into her head.  This was the excitement.  She changed the look on someone’s face with just her voice.  People stared at her in horror, and she loved it.  The internet had said she might not even do any prison time if she only got a few bucks out of the drawer.  Her clean record and advanced age made her a sympathetic case, she knew.

The barista, nametagged Ana, a trainee, had tears starting to well up in her eyes.  It was her third day of work, and she was only at the register because it had come so easily to her.  She was busting with joy when she arrived back home after her first shift, eager to tell her mom how well she had done.  The money was supposed to be for her books in college, and with two years left in high school, she figured she would have enough, if she only sometimes bought herself something special.

“Ok, what do you want me to do?” she asked, hands warily in the air.  Kris looked nothing like her grandmother, but she couldn’t help but feel like it was Grandma who was scaring her.

“I need you to open up the cash register and give me some money.”

Ana slowly tapped at the touchscreen, unsure really how to get to the cash without doing an actual transaction.  She would ask the more senior employee working that day, but Rick had stepped out for a cigarette and it suddenly seemed as if he would never return.

“HURRY UP,” Kris belted, feeling more empowered than ever.  She didn’t have a weapon.  That was part of her short jail term plan.  She was betting that an authoritative voice and the element of surprise would be enough.

Ana never realized how easily she could have just said no.  After all, how do you say no when Grandma yells at you?  The register finally popped open, its early morning cash reserves sitting at less than $300.

“Do you want it all?” she asked, without looking up.

“I need $100 dollars in non-sequential bills!” Kris demanded, without knowing really what that meant.

“Um, like ones, fives and twenties, but no tens?”

“YEAH!”

Kris felt as if adrenaline had fully replaced the blood in her veins.

Ana began scooping bills out of the register and laying them out on the counter, working out the total in math mumbled to herself.  When she got to $100 under the agreed-upon rules, she looked up for the first time since the sticky bun portion of the ordeal.

“Th-there it is,” she said.

“Do you have a bag or something?”

Kris looked around and found the paper pouches usually used to hold scones and their pastry cousins.  The cash mostly fit inside, with only the very edge featuring the denomination sticking out.  She slid the bundle across the counter.

“Is that it?” she asked, hoping her first robbery was over.

Kris wasn’t ready.  She wanted to swim in what she was feeling a little longer.

“I need a venti mocha, too.”

Ana had already served enough drinks to have robotic responses ready for the most popular drinks.

“Do you want whip cream with that?”

“OF COURSE!” Kris said.  Her escape plan involved her car, but at this point she felt like she could run the seven miles home without any problem.

Ana set about making the drink, her shaking hands slowing her down and creating more of a mess than the Starbucks employee manual permitted.  It was during this process she started to wonder why nobody was doing anything.  There were five other customers in the coffee shop, all sitting at tables near the front now acting like they didn’t notice what was happening.  And where was Rick?  Ana didn’t smoke, but figured it couldn’t possibly take this long to get through a cigarette.

Kris began to get impatient.  If she left right now she might not get caught, even with the security cameras staring right at her.  Would the police even bother to investigate a simple hundred-buck theft?  People got away with more than that all the time.  And weren’t there murderers running free they should be worrying about instead?

The coffee was done.  The lid snapped on.  The little protective sleeve in place.

“Mocha for—“ Ana began before catching herself.  Damn training.

Kris took the drink in her non-money bundle hand and smiled.

“Thank you, dear.  Please don’t cry.  You’ve been part of the best day of my whole life.”

Ana stared back, unsure how to respond.

“You’re welcome, I guess.”  She sniffled and did her best to keep her composure.  “Have a good day.”

Kris winked and turned toward the door, striding confidently past the do-nothings.  She stepped into the crisp air.  There was no one else in the parking lot.  No flashing lights.  No vigilantes ready to exact justice.  She had done it.

The car unlocked with a beep and she eased herself inside.  A deep breath, followed by the turn of the key and the engine coming to life.  Reverse.  Drive.  Right turn.  Left turn.

With a mile to go, a bright blue light approached, spinning in her rearview mirror.  Kris pulled slowly into the turn lane at the next light, stopping just short of the intersection.  She sipped her coffee and looked at the money on the passenger seat.  Engine off.  Blinkers on.  She picked up the bundle and fanned out the bills in her hand.  That distinct money smell filled her head and she smiled.

Tap tap on the window.  Glass sliding down.  Cool air filling the car.

“What seems to be the problem, officer?”