Hi.
In lieu of a real post, I did a fifteen minute writing challenge today. The word of the day? Greet. There's no editing or anything. Just a write and post.
"Hi."
"Hi."
It's kind of become their thing now. She isn't sure how, or when, but she's been measuring her days in unsure greetings for quite a while. Her word is always slow, tentative, but she tries for bright and friendly every time. His word is always quiet, but firm, and she's sure he's trying for nonchalant. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish at first, and she shrugs her shoulders, as though asking him a question she doesn't really want the answer to. Her eyes flick up and down while his stare straight at her. She wonders if he can see right into her, though she isn't sure what he'd see beyond his three-day-a-week order.
He comes in at the slowest part of the day. The morning regulars have already made their way into work. The kids who need their afternoon pick me up following seven hours of books and note taking haven't been in yet. And no one visits their local barista for lunch.
He walks in, doing a double take on all of his visits, like he always expects the line to be out the door. And then, she waits, her fingers twisting together on the surface of the counter, her lips pursed, but trying not to bite her lip gloss away. Her instincts have her wanting to tuck her hair behind her ears while he takes his time deciding on the same menu items, but she knows that would be unprofessional, not to mention, make her look like a twelve-year-old. Instead, she points the toe of one foot, puts one on top of the other, and tries to remember to breath.
She pretends not to notice the slight wobble to his smile when he orders his usual blueberry muffin and medium cup of the house blend. She also pretends not to notice the shaking of his hands when he swipes his debit card, or the way he shuffles his feet back and forth while she grabs his order. She pretends not to notice because if she notices, then maybe that breathlessness when she greets him has a reason. She pretends not to notice because then, she doesn't have to give in to this tension in her stomach, this coiling of aqnticipation that builds up in her chest. It's easier to pretend that she's seeing something that isn't really there. It's easier to downplay everything, feign naivete. It's all so much easier than getting sucked in to some fantasy of romance.
He sips his coffee in the same corner table, the one where he can see the exit and the counter, while he thumbs through a worn paperback on week. He splits his blueberry muffin in half and enjoys bites between typing out emails on his laptop the next. And he always leaves a dollar in the tip jar when gets up to toss his cup in the trash. There's another tentative greeting just before he goes through the glass door, the bell chiming above his head.
Until the one week when there isn't. There's a rare line at the counter when he leaves, and he gives a vague nod in her direction, a half smile that makes her blush even though it shouldn't, while she repeats someone else's coffee request back to them. She doesn't even realize until her shift is over that he put money in the tip jar. It's not his usual dollar; it's got a hastily scrawled set of numbers on it. Seven digits followed by a name.
And suddenly, it isn't just a fantasy.
"Hi."
"Hi."
His is hesitant when he answers. Hers is quiet, but firm. It still makes her feel breathless, especially when she hears the relief in his voice, the smile. And it's still their thing, even if she can't put a finger on how it started, or why. All She knows is that it did.
Not entirely sure why that was spawned by the word "greet." I've never worked as a barista before. It would probably be an interesting job though.
"Hi."
"Hi."
It's kind of become their thing now. She isn't sure how, or when, but she's been measuring her days in unsure greetings for quite a while. Her word is always slow, tentative, but she tries for bright and friendly every time. His word is always quiet, but firm, and she's sure he's trying for nonchalant. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish at first, and she shrugs her shoulders, as though asking him a question she doesn't really want the answer to. Her eyes flick up and down while his stare straight at her. She wonders if he can see right into her, though she isn't sure what he'd see beyond his three-day-a-week order.
He comes in at the slowest part of the day. The morning regulars have already made their way into work. The kids who need their afternoon pick me up following seven hours of books and note taking haven't been in yet. And no one visits their local barista for lunch.
He walks in, doing a double take on all of his visits, like he always expects the line to be out the door. And then, she waits, her fingers twisting together on the surface of the counter, her lips pursed, but trying not to bite her lip gloss away. Her instincts have her wanting to tuck her hair behind her ears while he takes his time deciding on the same menu items, but she knows that would be unprofessional, not to mention, make her look like a twelve-year-old. Instead, she points the toe of one foot, puts one on top of the other, and tries to remember to breath.
She pretends not to notice the slight wobble to his smile when he orders his usual blueberry muffin and medium cup of the house blend. She also pretends not to notice the shaking of his hands when he swipes his debit card, or the way he shuffles his feet back and forth while she grabs his order. She pretends not to notice because if she notices, then maybe that breathlessness when she greets him has a reason. She pretends not to notice because then, she doesn't have to give in to this tension in her stomach, this coiling of aqnticipation that builds up in her chest. It's easier to pretend that she's seeing something that isn't really there. It's easier to downplay everything, feign naivete. It's all so much easier than getting sucked in to some fantasy of romance.
He sips his coffee in the same corner table, the one where he can see the exit and the counter, while he thumbs through a worn paperback on week. He splits his blueberry muffin in half and enjoys bites between typing out emails on his laptop the next. And he always leaves a dollar in the tip jar when gets up to toss his cup in the trash. There's another tentative greeting just before he goes through the glass door, the bell chiming above his head.
Until the one week when there isn't. There's a rare line at the counter when he leaves, and he gives a vague nod in her direction, a half smile that makes her blush even though it shouldn't, while she repeats someone else's coffee request back to them. She doesn't even realize until her shift is over that he put money in the tip jar. It's not his usual dollar; it's got a hastily scrawled set of numbers on it. Seven digits followed by a name.
And suddenly, it isn't just a fantasy.
"Hi."
"Hi."
His is hesitant when he answers. Hers is quiet, but firm. It still makes her feel breathless, especially when she hears the relief in his voice, the smile. And it's still their thing, even if she can't put a finger on how it started, or why. All She knows is that it did.
Not entirely sure why that was spawned by the word "greet." I've never worked as a barista before. It would probably be an interesting job though.