My Favorite Barista

She leans out the window, her long brown hair loose and still a bit damp from the shower.  It is early, and I am on my way to work, stopping in for my morning coffee.

“Good morning….Your regular?” Recognition lights up her big, blue eyes, and makes me smile.

“Yes, please.” I hand her my travel mug and card, but in my mind, I’m thinking, can “my regular” include you?

She turns away from me to face the espresso machine, her lovely young behind held tight by her jeans, the kind with embellished pockets that give away the price.  And gauging from the size of the rock on her finger, it is easy to surmise that she probably works her by choice, not need….which somehow makes her sweetness more believable, and more of a turn on; her smiles and words are genuine, not ministrations meant to elicit tips or return business.

As I sit in my car, staring at her pockets, and the brown curls nipping at her lower back, I tried to envision her other half.  An older man?  A sugar daddy?  Someone with money, to be sure.

Replacing the lid on my mug draws my eyes to her hands.  No polish, short manicured nails, no blemishes.  Only the one simple, large piece of jewelry.  She strikes me as an all-American girl.  Probably has cowboy boots on and white cotton panties.  Very likely has a horse in the backyard at home.  And anyone who trusts themselves to work around coffee all morning in a white cotton shirt is either daft or very meticulous and good at her job.

Leaning back out the window, she hands down my coffee, card, and receipt.  I take it, placing it in my cup-holder, and then reach back up with a folded up dollar to place in the tip jar.

I wish I had the nerve to hit on her.  Instead, I flirt in my subtle ways…compliment her on the smell of her hair, ask where she got her jeans.

I’ll keep coming back, though.

Maybe someday I’ll tell her how luscious her lips are and that I’d love to find out if they taste better than the coffee.

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