The Mistaken Barista

Massive glass doors fly open as he enters, shrouded in bright sunlight, beige chinos and blue cashmere hug his chiseled form. He looks nothing less than a modern day Apollo. A God that deems fit to walk this realm of mortals. He walks straight towards me with purpose and a wide smile on his glorious face, his perfect teeth glowing like tiny stars and his eyes are deep blue gateways into the vast universe.

My world stands still as I clutch my apron, until my fingers turn blue and prick of a sharp nail brings me back to reality. Yet, I can’t keep my eyes off that heavenly specimen of mankind. I lick my lips and bite my lower lip hard, and his lips twist into a naughty smirk. His strides are decisive and he walks with the air of someone who always gets what he wants. Somehow that knowledge creates a puddle of desire between my legs.


“So, am I going to see you tonight?” He asks, his voice a sultry invitation into the caves of my darkest desires. Looking into my eyes, standing less than two feet away from me, his nearness makes me want to swoon and fall into his arms.
“Yes…. Oh yes.” I say, my voice a hoarse whisper. And I kick myself for sounding so ready, so desperate.
“7 o’clock dinner and later at your place? That is if you are okay with it.” He asks again.

Oh how can I say no to this gorgeous, gorgeous man. I make a quick note to get off work early and clean up my apartment, at least the cat litter.
“Sounds perfect.” I reply, my face flushed and glowing.
“Hold on” he says, his expression suddenly a little confused. And if anything he looks even hotter when confused. Oh, the beautiful mixture of arrogance and vulnerability, the puddle between my legs grows.
“Hold on.” He repeats. “I believe, the Barista thinks I’m talking to her. Let me call you back.”
He then proceeds to remove a Bluetooth device from his ear and says, “One espresso and a smoked chicken sandwich, please.”
And I run to fulfill the hot guy’s order, praying that the ground breaks open, swallows me whole and boils me in lava for all eternity.

It takes me nothing less than three shots of espressos and three conversations with my Mom telling me that I am the most beautiful child in the world, to even remotely get out of the embarrassment I put myself through in the morning. It is almost the end of the day and I have repeated that incident in my head at least a dozen times, every single time doing anything, anything at all other than answering the hot guy’s questions that he probably asked another equally hot woman on the phone.

The cafe is almost empty and just another 30 minutes I would be done with my shift. I clean the table tops, order the labeled bottles, painstakingly scrape the chewing gums stuck under at least five tables and scrape the gum that I manage to get on my hair until I have to pull an entire clump of hair out, because the gum wouldn’t come off.

The doors to the cafe open and there shrouded in the darkness of the night outside stands the hot guy. And mind you, he still looks as gorgeous as he did in the morning. If anything his 5 o’clock stubble gives him a weary yet undeniably rugged shadow. And his slow, yet purposeful strides towards me make my stomach tumble in a rollercoaster ride. His deep blue eyes speak of a saga; the saga of an exhausted yet ferocious warrior.
My hands ache to throw away my apron and run into his arms. Climb his big body, entangle my legs around his waist and comfort his perfectly proportionate head into my chest.

“Well, I got stood up.” He says. “She never turned up for dinner.” His eyes a dull reminder of that bright universe I saw in the morning.

“That’s terrible.” I say. Clutching my apron tight into both my hands and wondering when would it be appropriate for me to pull his head between my breasts.

“Yeah man. I feel like shit. Why would she do that?” He says. I want to cry for him, who would not want to be with this perfect piece of hunk. I hope the girl who stood him up, gets hit by a truck and burns half of her smoking hot body.

“Beats me. I would never, ever do anything like that to a date. Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask. And again he looks at me, this time amused, his perfect lips forming into a wide smile.

“Let me call you back” he says. “The Barista again thinks I’m talking to her.”
He then removes his Bluetooth device; while I dig my heels into the ground hard, harder than ever, hoping that this time around there is no way I can stay above ground. I deserve to be lynched, hung on a tree, left to be pecked to death by ravens and then thrown into a far away active volcano, for the pure, unadulterated stupidity that I am.

“A hot chocolate and butter cookies, please.” He says, smiling politely, yet I can see the mirth in his eyes.

And when I return a with his order, he asks, “So, am I taking you out for dinner tonight?” And I check his ear for the Bluetooth device before answering “Yes”.


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