caffeine love

Dear boy who works at Starbucks,

you are tall. i know because at 5'8" i am tall for a girl, and you are easily a few inches taller than me. your hair is scruffy in just the right way. is it blonde? is it brown? i don't know. you usually wear shorts. i laughed when i first saw this (who gets to wear shorts to work?), but i like it now. you look nice in them. you have a constant 5'o'clock shadow and sort of a long face. you have light eyes. blue or green, i haven't had the nerve to look long enough to determine. you're thin, and handsome, and i like you.

today as i went through the drive through for my pumpkin spice latte, you were working the window. i was thrilled, and my girly voice, all squeaky and awkward, reared it's ugly head. you called my dog Dude. "what's up, Dude?" i hoped Scout (that's really his name) would speak up and ask for your number, but he must have been as nervous as i. Vita was no help in the passenger seat, staring out the window, pretending to be cool. i regret not putting makeup on today.

if i had the guts i would ask you for a date, an official place for you to start falling in love with me. but i don't have the nerve. what's the chance you're not already taken? i'd guess slim to none. i don't even know your name. i hope for the day when you notice me. then you'll smile at me, not because i'm a paying customer, but because you're genuinely glad to see me. maybe our hands will touch as you hand me my change. together, we'll have the perfect temperature.

your admirerer/pumpkin latte customer,
Caitie