Actual conversation this morning...
Wife: *sniffle* "I have no idea what I'm allergic to."
Me: "Well as long as you aren't coughing up blood and don't have a fever, I think you'll be OK."
Wife: "Well, I did cough up this black liquidy stuff."
Me: "WHAT?!"
Wife: "And my hand started turning into a claw."
Me: *starting to get it* Oh. I was wondering about that. I didn't mention it because I didn't want you to feel self-conscious.
Wife: One of my eyes is turning yellow, too.
I love my wife.
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.
It's a crisp Saturday morning as I make my way through the Davis Farmers' Market. I don't see the booth I'm supposed to man, yet.
I could use some coffee.
There's a wooden coffee cart near the kettle corn booth, with an espresso machine behind a glass pane and two large silver coffee pots. A black-and-yellow bumper sticker below the glass stands out:
NO COFFEE, NO WORKEE
