It wasn’t a particularly cold day. It wasn’t particularly
warm either. It was that blissful blend of sweet and sour, mild and spicy and a
whole lot of other compromising euphemisms. I sat in the back of the Starbucks
located in the mecca of South Philly society: 4th and South. A large
comfy chair supported my upper back as I typed away on my laptop with vigorous
purpose.
“Here’s your latte Ms. Armstrong. Was there anything else
you needed?” The barista was tall thin and trendy, lanky in places where most hipsters
were lanky, however handsome in his face. If he gained about fifteen pounds and
trimmed up his unruly beard I’d fuck him. Note to self, write a story about
star-crossed lovers in the city of Philadelphia: a girl from the metal scene
and your average, garden variety hipster from Northern Liberties. I think it could be a hit.
“No thank you I’m fine.” I reply to him with a sweet tone
and a smile. I’ve been trying my hardest to smile more lately. Random people on
the street keep suggesting I do so. Mostly men. Anyway, I thought about it,
randomly a couple weeks ago and I realized I do need to smile more. I find that
I grimace in a mean-mug sort of manner even when I’m in a cheerful mood.
Smiling is hard.
I sip my coffee gingerly and savor the thick scent of
pumpkin spice as it lingers under my nose. The music in this shop is too low. I
wouldn’t ever admit it but I actually like this song by ….I don’t even know who
this song is by. It has a moderate tempo and you can definitely tell, behind
the heavy 808 bass line and pulsing electronic-dub step, the girl can really
sing. I like pop music like that. When you can go on YouTube and find numerous
videos of said artist belting it out to a classical piano-forte like it was
just her, her piano and her sacred four walls. I should have learned to play
piano.
My peaceful musical reflection is disrupted by a voice. A
deep voice accompanied by a dark pair of eyes, brown skin and frighteningly
white teeth.
“How you doing?” He leaned over the table, WAY into my personal space, pet peev alert, and
his breath smelled like black-and-milds. Nothing wrong with that smell except
that along with the waft of scent came unwanted spittle.
“I’m fine and yourself?” I didn’t smile.
“I’m good ma’. What’s your name?” I hesitated. Not because I
was pondering whether or not to give him my name, because he wasn’t going to
get it, I was trying to figure out why he was even in this Starbucks. He didn’t
have a drink in his hand nor did he have a pastry. He also wasn’t with anyone
and it didn’t appear that he was waiting to meet someone either.
“What’s yours?” I respond. A pat on the back for evading the question.
“Danny.”
“What brings you to Starbucks Danny?” I try to keep my voice
as even as possible. It’s a known fact that any fluctuation in vocal pattern,
when speaking to a stranger of the opposite sex, could result in a false
indication of flirtation. I also kept my eyes on my computer. I wanted him to
realize I was uninterested in speaking with him. I was merely being polite by
responding.
“Well I was walking by and I saw you in the window, smiling
at that white dude, and I thought to myself, I need to talk to that girl. She’s
so beautiful, how could I not?”
I responded to him with a smile, forced but a smile none the
less. How do you respond to someone after a statement like that? Thanks for the compliment but I’m not
interested in getting a cup of coffee with you or a beer. He’d immediately
call me a bitch loud enough for everyone to hear and storm out of the shop. As
a result I’d actually start to feel like a bitch. Further I’d be left with the
embarrassing stares of the people around me. Any other response would result in
his staying and shooting the shit, which I definitely didn’t want. I just
wanted to write in peace.
“Thanks!”
“Can I get your num…” Before he could finish his sentence a
young man in a Starbucks uniform walked up to us and interrupted.
“Hey, are you alright? Did you need anything else?” He spoke
directly to me. His voice was loud and deep and it was clear he was just
arriving for work, apron in hand, visor connected to his belt. He also leaned
into my space a bit but this time I was more than grateful for this action. “Do
you know this guy? I only ask because you look a bit uncomfortable.”
He was very direct and to the point. I appreciated that. He
looked the main dead in the face and didn’t flinch a bit.
“No I don’t know him. I think he was just leaving though, so
I should be alright. Thank you for asking.”
I looked at the man with polite eyes, or at least with what
I thought was polite eyes. Sometimes I’m not sure. I have one of those faces
that just seems to look angry all of the time. The barista looked at him too.
His face looked more like you got the
hint buddy. My hero!
“Oh is that how it is? Aight.” The man walked away with a
limp. Did guys still do that? He
didn’t look behind him, he didn’t say anything, and he did cause a scene.
“Thank you! I wasn’t sure how to get out of that one without
actually leaving.”
“No worries. He’s a repeat offender. Comes in here all the
time hitting on good looking girls. Trapping them really. I’ve had to ask him
to leave on a number of occasions. I’m Matt.” As he stuck out his hand to shake
mine his bright blue eyes caught the sun light as it trickled through the visor
blinds. I’d definitely fuck him!!
“Rochelle. Thanks again!” He smiled at me as he walked to
what I can only assume was the staff only lounge. I took a deep breath and
thanked the universe for people like Matt.
With a heavy sigh and a shake of my head, I got back to my
writing. I sipped my coffee and listened to my music (I’ve found that having
ear buds in sometimes deters the weirdoes). Every once in a while I’d glance up
at the counter and catch Matt glancing back. Maybe I’ll ask him for his number
before I head out.
