You are dragging your feet in the pavement, absolutely loathing coming home from work on a Friday afternoon and having more work given to you instead of revelling in the satisfaction of a hard day's work and pondering a list of what you can do over what was supposed to be your free time tonight.
And since that was not happening, you feel like you can't come home before you finish work. Because if you do, your brain will already be kicking back in weekend mode, and it'll be harder to do any work. So you better find somewhere you can sit down and work before you go home.
On the corner of the street, you spot a sign that says “coffee”. You reach the potted plants-adorned shopfront and peek through the glass to see what looks like a cozy little café, with not that many people in it. Good for you, but is it good for business? You wonder why you've never seen this place before, seeing that you pass by this corner street every time on your way home. You decide that it's probably new.
The wifi sign on the glass door was the deciding factor and you pushed the door inside. As you walk up to the front register, you see another user in her table typing away on her laptop, and you're almost reassured that in a few minutes that'll be you, and in no time, your work will be finished and you can go home and relax.
You'll just have to order first.
“Hello, what can I get you today?” the barista asks.
Having not decided what drink you are getting because you were too busy eyeing the other patrons, your eyeballs have only begun roaming the menu written on the blackboard on top of the cabinets behind the counter. You find yourself apologising to the barista for taking too long.
“Oh, no, take your time,” he says, sounding nowhere remotely insincere. “If you want I can help you choose.”
You sigh in relief. Thank God, you think, because the social anxiety was starting to get to you. “Thanks, I'd love that–”
You shift your focus from the blackboard behind to the barista in front of you and wonder how you missed him: tall, handsome, with a big, charming smile accompanied by a dimple barely peeking out below his left cheekbone. You freeze.
The barista's expression shifts from a friendly smile to a confused one, and the image adds itself into the myriad of thoughts as your brain processes it and snaps you out of your trance.
“Oh! Oh, sorry. Yes–please, help me choose,” you tell him, and his smile goes back to its beguiling self.
“May I ask what kind of coffee you like?” he asks, hand gesturing towards the bags of quality coffee beans resourced from all over the world.
“I don't really drink coffee...” you reply, voice small, but he definitely heard it, because his face once again changes into what looks like shock, maybe even disbelief. You immediately proceed to explain yourself. “I know, I'm sorry, it's a coffee shop so you're supposed to order coffee, right? But I don't really like coffee and I'm just here to get some work done and this place is new for me, so–”
Your ears catch a hearty chuckle and you immediately stop rambling to see the barista being all smiles again. “No need to apologise, it's completely normal to not like coffee. I can assure you, our shop is welcome for you, whatever kind of drinks you like–which, you are right, by the way, this place is fairly new, and I have to thank you for reminding me that we need to brainstorm for more non-coffee beverages,” he tells you. You feel your shoulders relax at his good-natured banter.
“So, what do you like, then?”
“I like tea... and milk. I like anything sweet and creamy,” you reply, knowing full well your choices don't reflect those of the average adult person. “Most people probably come to a coffee shop and order an iced americano but to me it tastes like battery acid.”
There was a microscopic window of silence after you end your sentence before the barista cackles in your face.
“D-did I say something funny?”
He shakes his head, still heaving, trying to suppress the remains of his laughter. “Oh, no, no. You're probably right,” he says, leaning against his arm propped up on the table.
You crack a nervous smile.
The shop's front door bell rings and a couple comes in to queue behind you. You are reminded of how long you've stood in front of the register, and how it'll look weird if you do any longer. And, you haven't decided on a drink.
“So, any idea of what you think I'll like?” you ask the barista.
“I got just the thing,” he says, coolly, and proceeds to ring up your order on the register. “May I have your name?”
You tell him your name, and your eyes are somehow focused on the way his long, slender fingers type the letters of your name on the touch screen. What else can those hands do, you wonder. You have also only now realised that he is the only one running this coffee shop.
“Okay, that'll be 2.82.”
You hand him a bill and he swiftly returns your change and receipt. “Thank you, I'll bring your drink over shortly.”
“Thanks...” you say, eyes drifting away from his, to his chest, where on the left side you can see a name tag that says, “...John. Thanks, John.”
Your heart stirs when you see the way he raises his eyebrows for a split-second before his eyes crinkle into crescents as he smiles, an image that is slowly imprinting itself onto your brain, not disappearing any time soon.
“Call me Johnny.”
His name still echoes in your head as you sit down at your table and open your laptop. From the corner of your eyes, you watch his back as his tall figure hunches down to make drinks on the counter. Focus, you tell yourself, taking a reminder that you're here to do some work.
Which works because a few minutes later you are lost in the words and the numbers on your laptop screen, before Johnny appears by your table, bringing a cup of hot drink.
“Here you go, a special drink for a special customer.”
You're just saying that, you want to say, but before you can say it, Johnny's already left for another table. You shift your attention to the blue ceramic cup before you, and the creamy white froth bubbling on top of it. On it is a classic latte art in the shape of a heart. You know it's not coffee because it doesn't smell like it. You take a sip.
And it's perfect, you think as you take another sip, and another. You think of this day as the day you are smitten by something you don't yet know the name of. But you can feel what goes into it, the amount of care and attention a certain someone puts into making this, making something just for you.
You're about to put down the cup when you notice a folded piece of paper on the saucer. You open it.
I close shop at 8. You're very welcome to stay after-hours. If you have something better in mind, let me know.
Your eyes linger at the smiley face at the end of the sentence.
You are sure there wasn't any coffee in your drink, but somehow your heart is beating faster than usual.
You look up at the counter to see Johnny already looking at you. He does that thing, the one that make your heart stirs again: a slight raise of his eyebrows, the way he notices things, the way he notices you, before his eyes crinkle into their crescent shapes and he raises his index finger and put it above his lips.
Confused, your tongue automatically darts out to lick your upper lip and suddenly taste soft, salty cream. Embarrassed, you grab a napkin and dab the cream off your lips. Johnny laughs his deep, hearty chuckle that you can hear very clearly across the floor, shakes his head, and goes back to work.
You lean back against your chair. You look at the clock on your screen saver. You have plenty of time to finish work, but then again, you know you're no longer going straight home after.