Flustered more by the total cliché of having a crush on a barista than by the actual cuteness* of said barista, I completely forgot that I’d ordered a chai latte instead of my usual café au lait and proceeded to dump two packets of raw sugar into my cup without so much as a sip beforehand. Cute barista looked at me with an expression I recognized as the exact same face I make when the person ahead of me at the movie concessions stand orders a giant tub of popcorn with butter and a gallon cup of Diet Coke.
I’m not sure where I found the strength to smile and walk slowly out of the coffeehouse, instead of dropping my cup and running away in embarassment never to return, but now I’m sitting on my bed, sipping my far-too-sweet beverage, wishing I wasn’t such a giant dork.
* Although he is terribly cute—I do not usually like hipsters or musicians, and he is clearly both, but oh his hair is so wonderfully floppy, his glasses are at the exact intersection of nerdy and stylish, and his beard is the perfect length for making out. These are the kinds of things I only type out when I am single.