Blue Eyes

The Starbucks barista works the espresso machine quickly and professionally, but there's a nervous hurriedness about her movements, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she moves from counter to sink and back. As she tries to get a grande iced white mocha right for the third time, I take another sip of my coffee — black, with a little sugar.

The lady beside me snorts, and I give her a sympathetic smile. We're both waiting on the same kind of drink, only the one I'm waiting for was ordered without whipped cream. After accidentally adding caramel on top of the lady's order, the barista thought if she scraped off the whipped cream, she could give me the drink; mid-scrape though, she changed her mind and decided to start over. I'd offered to pick up the mocha for a co-worker since I had some time left on my lunch break - now it looks like my lunch will run late.

I actually don't mind, though, because I'm a little caught up with every glimpse of the barista's slightly-worried face, which frames the clearest, bluest eyes I've ever seen.

Her bright, electric blue irises are almost jewel-like on their own, but what really makes them stand out is the fact that they appear unflecked—at least from where I'm standing, they appear to be one solid blue, uninterrupted by flecks of other colors. The effect is disconcerting, and I wonder to myself if they're fake.

The third white mocha is perfect, and she hands it relieved to the lady, who takes it and turns huffily to the door. My order is up soon after, and I pick it up from the counter, thanking the still-stressed barista.

"Wait," she says, as I move toward the exit. I turn back, and am caught by the steady, unblinking gaze of her featureless blue eyes. They're like nothing I've seen before.

She leans forward, moving her hand across the counter. "You forgot your straw."

I take the straw and nod another thanks to her, running the good look of her eyes through my head.

Definitely fake, I conclude.

A hunched figure outside holds the door for me. I instinctively thank the person, and find myself arrested by another blue-eyed gaze.

Set in a creased, weather-beaten face, the man's eyes are a deeper, more varied blue than the barista's. They seem to be clouded gray, as if years of hurt and disappointment had permanently taken their toll. He extends an open palm to me.

"Hey, little brother," he says softly. "Can you help an old man out?"

At that instant, paralyzed by his eyes, I can feel every fiber in me wanting to give him something. But I'm not carrying any cash, and had put the drinks on my credit card.

"I'm sorry," I say, smiling sheepishly, "I've got nothing."

The words sound empty holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a grande, no-whip iced white chocolate mocha in the other.

The man holds my gaze for a beat, then releases me, nodding knowingly and then walking into the store.

I look after him for a moment, then walk to my car, taking another sip of my coffee.