“You’re like the cynical, city-dwelling, career gal at the beginning of a Hallmark movie who hates the holidays and has her heart melted by the strapping, small-town Christmas tree farm owner,” Ari said the other day as I complained under my breath about Greg’s obsession with garlands.

“Yes, except the part about being a ‘career gal,’ ” I replied, gesturing around us.

The second he’d digested his Thanksgiving tofurkey, Greg decked out Roastlandia in twinkle lights and holly and started his Spotify Christmas playlist on repeat, convinced customers love the cheer as much as they love the overpriced holiday-themed lattes. As if everyone celebrates Christmas. As if it’s not the most triggering time of the year. With its steampunk-looking espresso machine and handcrafted artisan chairs and the artwork featuring overweight cats made out of recycled soda bottles for sale on the walls, Roastlandia’s usual vibe is hipster coffee shop trying too hard to seem like it’s not trying at all.

Its current vibe is all that, plus Christmas.

And no, I’m not particularly fond of Christmas. For very transparent, gaping-hole-of-loneliness-in-my-chest-related reasons.

I begin steaming a milk substitute for a customer’s flat white as the opening notes of “Last Christmas” by Wham! float overheard, and honestly, this song feels like a personal attack.

Last Christmas, I moved across the country to work at one of the most acclaimed animation studios in the world.

This year—

“Almond milk, Ellie! I said almond milk! Not oat milk. Were you even listening?”

I flinch and almost send the stainless-steel milk jug clanging to the floor. When I look up, I see Tuesday Jeff encroaching on my personal space. The man so named for his regular Tuesday visit of terror has two hands braced boldly against the back of the espresso machine, and he leans forward with a collection of spittle gathering in the left corner of his mouth. I will definitely draw him like this for my webcomic when I get home: currently apoplectic about milk substitutes and always looking like the food critic from Ratatouille. This entire day will make a good story for my most recent episode.

“Sorry, Jeff—” I give him my most ingratiating smile as I make a quick switch in faux-milk containers. “I thought I heard you order oat milk.”

He absolutely 100 percent had ordered oat milk.

“Why would I want milk made from oats? You can’t milk an oat!” he shouts at me.

“Can you milk an almond?” I mutter quietly, before covering with a very loud, “I’m extremely sorry.”

Somehow, “Last Christmas” is still playing. Or maybe playing again?

Last Christmas, my life had direction and purpose.