I forgot what I was supposed to order. I know that it’s their job to smile but dammit his smile was charmingly distracting. So I ordered the first thing I saw on the menu, regretting it once it was served.
He called out my name, my heart jumped but sunk when I’ve tasted my mistake. What the fuck was a macchiato? This was supposed to be an Americano.
Well his smile was enough to wake me up; I didn’t need to fill my system with caffeine because I’ll be picturing his smile until I start dreaming. I sound perpetually cheesy and a tad bit creepy (as long as I wasn’t borderline cliché I’m doing fine) but I swear to God I’m not a stalker. But I do wish I knew his name.
Is it weird I’m writing so poetically about a stranger serving coffee? He’s behind the counter while I’m sitting a few feet away scribbling bad poetry.
Would it be too forward to strike a conversation? Maybe I should start with a friendly hello and ask for his name. Because here I am wondering who he is while he’s screaming out coffee order names.
People are now piling in and I’m jealous because he’s sharing his beautiful smile. I wish his smile was reserved for me, dammit this creamy drink was supposed to be an Americano I’d get a better order if it wasn’t for him.
Now I’m stealing glances hoping to catch an accidental smile. But if I did I’d awkwardly look away out of panic because I wouldn’t know my next move. Should I smile back? Or would that be too presumptuous? I could just continue with writing bad poetry on how he must smell like coffee. I cringe at the lines written on my notebook. The deafening murmurs and overplayed Christmas songs are not a great ambiance for writing yet his very presence was worth the inspiration.
How can everyone in this café be so preoccupied with their own business not realizing an angel smiled while handing out their coffee? Did I say angel?
I told myself not to be cliché but I ran out of metaphors and analogies. I blame early Christmas songs on loop in the background and this wrong coffee order for my minute of insanity. Dear Mariah Carey I love you but if I hear “All I Want for Christmas is You” one more time this early on October I will go mad.
And I did, my writing proves it.
I can tell you this though, God must be bragging in the clouds when he created him. Lining up his angels only to praise his creation, high fiving and cussing to show his enthusiasm. Oh for crying out loud I have written something almost blasphemous calling him almost holy.
Ugh, this overpriced drink should’ve been an Americano. Its bitterness matched with my skepticism would reduce this light headed feeling from a stranger’s smile. This is ridiculous. What is a macchiato anyway? Its sweetness is rubbing off on my paragraphs; these words are meant for a generic pop song that would be this cafe’s everyday soundtrack.
Dear barista with a captivating smile, can I get a refund? This was supposed to be an Americano.