Out of the corner of my eye, you look attractive, but a quick glance out of the corner of my right eye has found a lot of girls attractive. So I turn my head in your direction to get the opinion of my left eye, and a quick consultation from my brain. After a few seconds of discussion between all parties involved, it’s been decided that you are indeed attractive and that I must promptly find the nearest mirror, preferably in the sometime private comfort of the public restroom, and check my vanity.
Hair is messed up in all the right places. Like a zoo, it is wild yet under control. Teeth are clean. Smile is handsomely framed by some stubble and well-placed laugh lines. Zipper has been checked twice to make sure it’s in its full, upright, and locked position.
I walk out of the bathroom and towards the pretentiously convenient coffee shop where you first caught my glace of interest and stare of conformation, and stand in line behind a somewhat short, balding, mid-aged Asian man with a copy of Bridget Jones Diary and GQ magazine in hand.
I’m confused. I’m confused because I’m not sure if I should be confused or impressed by this middle aged Asian man. Not because he is seemingly in touch with both his feminine side and with current fashion trends for men, but because he is wearing a navy blue suit jacket with khaki shorts, white socks pulled up to his knees, and baby blue high-top sneakers. He looks as if he is going to play a charity tennis match on a yacht in Brooklyn.
Jay Z is up on this Asian guy 40-love by the time your voice echoes through my daydream and brings me back to reality. Dang it! Starring vacantly upward into space with my mouth slightly open and slightly smiling was not the first impression I was hoping to make with you.
You were attractive from a distance, but you’re even more attractive up close. Your brunette hair and hazel eyes only compliment you further. You smell fantastic. You smell European, but in a good way. Your smile, your smile makes my insides feel like a 14-year-old girl at the midnight showing of Twilight.
You ask what you can get for me, as I stare at the menu and let out a far to long and drawn out “Ummmmmmm…..”
I look over my options and think upon them. I should have already had my choice picked out before I even got to the counter, but I was to busy imagining about a ghetto fabulous tennis match.
I don’t want a latte, cappuccino, or espresso. Mostly because I don’t have my laptop, or any Russian literature with me, not to mention the fact that I’m not wearing a single stitch of tweed.
I smile and tell you that I’ve decided upon a grande White Chocolate hot chocolate with dark chocolate shavings sprinkled on top. The voice of Larry David comes to me saying, “What?! Shmuck!”
You smile as you punch in my order. Your smile is curious. I can’t tell if you’re smiling because it’s refreshing and cute that I ordered a white chocolate hot chocolate with dark chocolate shavings sprinkled on top, or because I’m a single man in his mid 20’s ordering a white chocolate hot chocolate in the middle of the summer, and specifically requested dark chocolate shavings, and don’t want the typical chocolate dust of nesquick crowning my hot coco.
You ask, but not sarcastically, if I would like a chocolate chip cookie to go with my hot chocolate. Perfect. Here is my moment to start up some flirty, charming customer/cashier banter.
You indulge my charm, and then retort with some flirty charm of your own. We lock eyes and smiles ever few seconds. You recommend the oatmeal raisin cookie, heated. Not in recent memory has an oatmeal raisin cookie sounded so enticing.
Am I a Borders rewards member? Yes.
I give you my email address to enter into the computer to confirm my membership.
Do I want to become a premium member for only twenty dollars, so I can get an extra ten percent off of books I’ll never buy? No, thank you.
Do I want to buy a bag of coffee to donate to the troops in Iraq? Not today, but I’ll buy one to donate to the troops the next time I come back in. Basically, I support the troops, but I ain’t buying a seven-dollar bag of coffee marked up to eighteen dollars n change to send to Iraq. I’m already out eight bucks for a cup of hot coco and a cookie, so me and the troops are pretty much square. You can donate the money I just gave you.
I use your questionnaire to further our flirtatious banter. It’s going over well. You are avoiding other customers to talk to me. I counter your smile and flip of the hair with a smile of my own, furrowed brow, and wall leaning pose reminiscent of James Dean.
Then you hand me my hot chocolate. You hand it to me with your left hand. My body posture morphs from being James Dean inspired to something resembling early Woody Allen as I see a diamond ring on your fourth finger.
Of course, you’re married. Why wouldn’t you be?
I can don nothing but smile. You hand me my cookie, and I turn and walk out. You look as if you’re about to say something, but I’m already to the door and you have a customer waiting for you. I keep smiling. I keep smiling because it’s funny to me. The eyes that initially put me out eight dollars, and a thousand plus calories, spot a pair of baby blue high tops in the magazine aisle.
I stand shoulder to balding head with the Asian man in the baby blues. I turn, smile, and say “Game. Set. Match.”
I walk away from Lil Asia, and out through the sliding doors. I drink my hot chocolate and eat my cookie. They are delicious. At this point, they have no other choice but to be.
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