I Broke Up with My Barista

I Broke Up with My Barista

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,

Yeward Edtume

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.



  1. So funny!
    Kantstop Laffing

  2. Well, if it was true I would have said, “Oh god! What a dick!”

  3. The fictitious you is much tougher than I could imagine even a fictitious me being. When a barista recognizes me I get all flushed and giggly. This is not an attraction thing. It could be Quasimodo behind the counter and I’d get that way.
    Let me take a moment here to apologize to anyone who finds Quasimodo hot.
    Christopher recently posted…Holiday Greenery.My Profile

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