I Broke Up with My Barista
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To My Former Barista,
We had a good thing going. You would write my name on a large cup when you saw me in line at Luke’s and would punch in my order before I even asked. I would sometimes give you a wink and a challenge by requesting a scone too.
Today it all changed.
I was at home sick last week with the flu or Norwalk or definitely Ebola and missed your steamy cup of hot, sweet, ristretto.
I returned to your store, smiled as I got to the cash, and it happened. Do you even remember speaking to me? I’ll remind you.
Hot Barista: What can I get for you today?
Me: No scone today. I’ve been so sick puking my esophagus raw and shitting my intestines out. Good news is that I lost five pounds (I gave you a turn so you could check out all sides). How do I look?
Hot Barista: (stammering so I knew you liked what you saw) Wow. OK. I guess. You look good?
Me: (with a little half slap on your arm) You can do better than ‘good.’
Hot Barista: OK. (You looked down and I thought it was cute how you avoided eye contact.) So, no scone it is.
Me: (handing over my usual money)
Hot Barista: What is this for?
Me: Why, the usual, of course.
Asshole Barista: Ma’am, you will have to forgive me for not knowing what that is.
What the fuck just happened? First you ‘Ma’amed’ me, then I remembered you insulted me by not complementing my svelte physique properly. Now I do want the scone and to get to a table immediately so I can Snapchat my friends about this insanity and unfriend you on Instagram. OK, maybe not unfriend, but certainly I will not be liking anything of yours today.
Me: I will have a Large, Half Caff, Ristretto, 4-Pump, Sugar-Free, Cinnamon, Dolce Soy Skinny Latte. And, on second thought, I will have that scone. Who do I think I am trying to impress anyway?
You just shrugged your wide, muscular, shoulders in response. Not that I noticed.
I handed over my money and told you my name was ‘You are Dead to Me.’ You spelled it “Yeward Edtume,” like it was a real fucking name and not a slap in your face. I have no words.
I will see you tomorrow, but I won’t be looking forward to it.
With sincere disappointment,
PS: This is a fictitious story.
PPS: In my mug (above) is Bulletproof Coffee. Have you tried this stuff? Holy crap, it is amazeballs.
PPPS: Once I finished my coffee in my Luke’s mug, I filled it with wine and started watching Gilmore Girls. I didn’t want to like it. I don’t need another show. But the mug Netflix sent me and the hype got me interested. Damn it if I don’t like it. I’m just not going to look if I can download it, for fear that I might run into a fire hydrant while not concentrating on where I am walking because I can’t get enough. I do have a tendency to find accidents, after all.
PPPPS: I recommend The Killing as well. How does Netflix always recommend shows I love? I’m thinking of calling someone to ensure I’m not being followed or check if they have wired the dog who watches with me. It’s getting kind of creepy.