It started with a free punch card.
Eli, who considered himself both a realist and a proud pessimist, found it fluttering on the sidewalk outside Perky Bean Café. Ten stamps already. One free drink.
He looked around. No one. Just a pigeon giving him side-eye.
“Fine,” Eli muttered, and walked in.
“Anything on the menu,” the barista said, all sunshine and piercings.
He pointed to the most absurd option: “I’ll take the Himalayan Salted Caramel Cloud Macchiato... with oat milk and extra vibe?”
“You got it,” she chirped.
That was his first mistake.
He took a sip.
The world shifted.
Suddenly, Eli—grumpy, cynical, spreadsheet-loving Eli—felt good.
Like, suspiciously good.
He helped an old lady cross the street. He gave a tourist directions. He held the door for seven people in a row and smiled like a golden retriever at a barbecue.
By 3 p.m., he had complimented a colleague’s socks, agreed to a team-building retreat, and said the words “Sure, let’s circle back on that!”
It was an out-of-body experience.
He staggered back to Perky Bean.
“What did you do to me?” he asked the barista, gripping the counter like a man lost at sea.
She shrugged. “People say the Cloud Macchiato reveals your better self.”
“I didn’t want a better self,” he hissed.
The barista leaned in. “Then maybe... don't take what's not yours.”
She slid him a new punch card. Blank.
He walked out, shaken, clutching a bottle of water like it was holy.
The next morning, he got his usual: bitter drip, no milk, no joy.
Balance restored.
But sometimes, late at night, he craves it—the cloud, the salt, the dangerous flirtation with kindness.
He still carries the punch card.
Just in case.