15 December 2011
Thursday evenings are very routine. Lock my laptop up nice and tidy in my disheveled bottom drawer at the office. Shut down the lights and head to my therapy ... Tonight I stopped at my Publix super market and grabbed a bite. Since I have a few minutes to spare I head over to the Starbucks in the same center. The morning crew knows me well but not so with the night shift. Although, one barista seems to find me all too familiar. It's slow tonight. Usual gawkers, failing artists, and wherever I fit in to the mix. So I will call this guy, Joe... Honestly, he does look very much like a Joe-- so it fits his profession well. He finally has a minute to ask me the questions that the few times we've made eye contact settled in his irises. The usual mistaken identity types: do you have a sister; are you from Lakeland; where do you work... No, no, Publix. Then my turn, why?
Behind Joe's cup of coffee lays a wild ex-girlfriend that had a very odd fetish for him to cross dress while they exchanged fluids and she whipped. Which leads me to the next and only reasonable response: do I really look like that kind of girl, Joe? Really, do I? Yes... so very amused sipping my coffee in a nice comfy chair with eyes scalding the back of my head and steam obviously rising from his trouser side pockets. He obviously enjoys my familiarity...
Behind Every Cup Of Coffee Is A Story • Opuss № I