Clear up the confusion

"Kamillentee." You say, getting up. " Sie meint Kamillentee, und ein Zimtbrotchen." You point at the tray in the case for good measure.

The barista's face floods with relief so immediate it's almost funny. "Ah, eine Zimtschnecke" he says, already reaching for the teapot, muttering something under his breath that's probably a thank-you disguised as a complaint about tourists.

The woman turns to look at you properly for the first time, and whatever irritation was building on her face gives way to something closer to genuine surprise. "Oh my god, thank you," she says, with real feeling, dropping onto the stool beside where you'd been sitting like the whole ordeal had personally exhausted her. "I have been standing here for,what feels like five minutes. I don't know how anyone survives in a country that doesn't just, speak English. No offense."

"None taken. I'm not Austrian."

"Right, obviously, you're ..." she gestures vaguely at you, "... whatever accent that is. I'm Tiffany, by the way. I'm here for the semester, some exchange thing from my Uni. This is, like, my third day and I already hate the buses."

"John. And yeah, the buses take some getting used to." You allow yourself half a glance, she really is striking, all curls and sundress and the kind of easy, unselfconscious energy that fills up a room, and those tits.... and then redirect your attention to your coffee before it becomes a problem. "You know, german isn't my native language either. And the viennese... i can talk to them fine, for simple things. But understanding them..."

"Okay, but at least you're trying. I didn't even think to learn 'tea.' That feels like a design flaw on my part." She laughs at herself, easily, no real embarrassment in it, and something about the way she owns it makes her considerably less insufferable than she seemed five minutes ago. The barista sets her tea and roll down in front of her, and she beams at him with enough genuine gratitude that he actually smiles back. "Dunki," she tries, carefully, like she's handling something breakable, and he nods, charmed despite himself.

"See? You're a natural."

"Don't jinx it, that's probably the only German word I'll retain all semester." She takes a bite of the cinnamon roll and makes a small, unguarded sound of approval that draws your eye before you can stop it. "Okay, this is incredible, I take back every bad thing I said about this country in my head five minutes ago. The food is lovely."

"High praise. So what are you actually studying, or is the exchange program just an elaborate excuse to eat pastries?"

"Business, unfortunately. Very boring, very practical, my dad's idea more than mine." She wrinkles her nose. "What about you?"

"Political science. Equally practical, equally my own bad decision."

"See, at least you picked yours." She props her chin on her hand, studying you with open, easy curiosity, and you find yourself holding her gaze a beat longer than the conversation strictly requires before she breaks it, laughing again. "Okay, is it weird that the first person who's actually been nice to me here is some random guy who translated tea for me?"

"A little weird. I'll take it, though."

She grins, and for the next twenty minutes the conversation drifts easily,nher chaotic first three days, the bus driver who apparently glared at her for not tapping her card fast enough, your own stumbling attempts at German that make her laugh loud enough that the barista glances over, amused. She's not what you clocked her as from across the room; underneath the volume and the sundress there's something disarmingly guileless about her, a kind of straightforward, unfiltered ease that's oddly refreshing after weeks of careful, awkward small talk. And she is definetly beautifull. If she were thinner, she could be a model, with that face card of hers. But those tits, straining her sundress are marvelous.

Eventually your coffee's gone and her tea's cold and neither of you have any reasonable excuse left to keep sitting there. "I should actually get to campus," you say, checking the time. "Registration."

"Oh my god, same, actually, I have some orientation thing I'm already going to be late for." She stands, gathering her bag, and glances at you with something bright and a little hopeful. "Are you walking that way? I have literally no idea where I'm going and I will 100% end up on the wrong tram again."

"I'm walking that way."

"Perfect. You can be my translator. Unofficially. For, like, the whole semester, ideally."

"That's a big ask for one cinnamon roll's worth of gratitude."

"I'm very persuasive, and i can be very thankfull." she says, giving you a wink. She may not be as ablivious as she apears. Has she noticed you peeking into her cleavage? You certainly tried your best to hide it. Falling into step beside you as you head for the door, and there's an easy, teasing lilt to it that makes you suspect she might genuinely mean it. The morning outside is bright and warm, and you find yourself in no particular hurry to reach campus after all.