Will Date For…Coffee

Good mornin’, y’all. Feeling a little groggy from last night? Well, check it: my Starbucks barista is totally hot. He’s from Brazil or Argentina or some shit, gorgeous muscular tanned arms, probably does his P90X before his work shift, then goes to auditions to be the next Old Spice dude or rocks some club with his hard core salsa band in the evenings. He just has that look, y’know? That clearly the green apron (which brings out his eyes) is just a temporary pit stop on his white-hot trip to greatness.

This is all in my head, BTW. I’ve never said more than “Ha, uh, hi…” and “double shot light foam, thanks, heh heh, erm *snort*.” He smiles at me, beautiful blindingly-white teeth, and I stand there, stupefied, until the yoga girl behind me starts huffing impatiently. My little ego shouts, “He likes me! He LIKES me!!!”, knocking over a houseplant. Never mind the fact that he smiles that way to, you know, EVERYONE. But I can’t help but dream, and gawk, and casually consider following him home.

Would I ever dare to make a move, like ask him out? Of course not. One, because I’m a pussy. Two, and here’s the REAL shitty truth: because I’m a stuck up bitch that has a problem with his job. I would be ashamed to tell my friends, “Yeah, he’s gorgeous, smart, funny–and he makes the meanest Nonfat Vanilla Latte this side of the Mississippi!” Now, if he was a bartender, I’d be OK with that. Why does the addition of one ingredient suddenly make him acceptable? Is it that much cooler to make a Moscow Mule (or a Bud draft, for that matter) than a dry Espresso?

Anyway, as IF he’d give me the time of day, my boring bullshit admin receptionist, Banana Republic sale-rack suit with Payless shoes and massive credit card debt…

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