Unsent letter to the local Starbucks Barista, penned by an unhappily married 32-yr old high-school history teacher (who wears Dockers)
Dear Barista-
I have seen you, woman. From afar. Like a hawk gazes upon his prey from on high…only I usually watch from the corner. Were we in medieval times, I would call you “coffee wench,” and probably try to slip my hand beneath your mildewy dress, at which time you would slap me and hiss, showing your half a dozen somewhat browned teeth. You have all your teeth now, as far as I can tell, but medieval folk weren’t into dental hygiene, and I’d imagine that so-called coffee wenches would be into it even less so. You would maybe brush once a week with a frayed twig and some salt, but that would be it, tops.
I can tell that you do not like to don the black and green baseball-style chapeau. You wear it at curious angles that betray your unease. You yearn to let loose your hornet’s nest of multicolored hair held captive by the corporate mandates of conformity…and health codes. Perhaps then I would find an electric blue strand of your filthy hair in my half-caf latte. I already have an inkling that you sometimes spit in the froth. A pungent venom far sweeter than any vanilla syrup shot.
You seem so alternative, indie, punk or whatever. I see the cigarette burns on your bicep. It must be difficult working for “the man.” Your locally-owned coffee shop peers must poke fun at you. They get to wear whatever they want.
I see your Vespa chained to the parking meter. Can it seat two? It is covered in militant stickers and symbols. Sharpie graffiti and rust against pale blue. Someone once phoned you at work, and I think the person who gave you the phone called you “Miranda.” I had rather fancied you a “Darcy” or “Clara.”
Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s your ripped fishnets making my loins steam, or if it’s from the rich venti-load of overpriced Guatamalan sludge. You brew a mean cup of voodoo love, woman—of this I am certain.
Yours from afar,
BH
Ps-So, you know…just e-mail me whenever.
I have seen you, woman. From afar. Like a hawk gazes upon his prey from on high…only I usually watch from the corner. Were we in medieval times, I would call you “coffee wench,” and probably try to slip my hand beneath your mildewy dress, at which time you would slap me and hiss, showing your half a dozen somewhat browned teeth. You have all your teeth now, as far as I can tell, but medieval folk weren’t into dental hygiene, and I’d imagine that so-called coffee wenches would be into it even less so. You would maybe brush once a week with a frayed twig and some salt, but that would be it, tops.
I can tell that you do not like to don the black and green baseball-style chapeau. You wear it at curious angles that betray your unease. You yearn to let loose your hornet’s nest of multicolored hair held captive by the corporate mandates of conformity…and health codes. Perhaps then I would find an electric blue strand of your filthy hair in my half-caf latte. I already have an inkling that you sometimes spit in the froth. A pungent venom far sweeter than any vanilla syrup shot.
You seem so alternative, indie, punk or whatever. I see the cigarette burns on your bicep. It must be difficult working for “the man.” Your locally-owned coffee shop peers must poke fun at you. They get to wear whatever they want.
I see your Vespa chained to the parking meter. Can it seat two? It is covered in militant stickers and symbols. Sharpie graffiti and rust against pale blue. Someone once phoned you at work, and I think the person who gave you the phone called you “Miranda.” I had rather fancied you a “Darcy” or “Clara.”
Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s your ripped fishnets making my loins steam, or if it’s from the rich venti-load of overpriced Guatamalan sludge. You brew a mean cup of voodoo love, woman—of this I am certain.
Yours from afar,
BH
Ps-So, you know…just e-mail me whenever.
2 Comments:
Well I just got back from the gym and I am beat. I am currently doing some research on custom poker table and stumbled across your blog. Which cracks me up really. The internet can certainly land you off base sometimes. Even though your blog is not completely related I think it is a cool blog. I have read back through the archives and lots of people make some very good points. Well I have been on-line forever it seems. I need to continue to plug away at custom poker table. If you have the energy swing by http://www.the-poker-outlet.com/. I try to update my site weekly and maybe you will see something you like. I already snagged your URL and put it in my favorites. If you do not mind I will be back again. Great job!
"Persistence is futile"
Indeed it does seem to be.
Post a Comment
<< Home