5:30 am. Woohoo. Nothing like the crippling weight of obligation and alarm clocks to steal you from a perfect dream of your favorite customer. My mornings start the same Monday to Saturday. Wake up, do some yoga in the little to no sunlight streaming in from my window (because I'm every twenty-something guy that moved to New York.) I make myself a cup of the first tea I pull out of the cabinet. My feet drag me towards my closet to dress in a pressed white button down and a pair of jeans. I slide into a pair of trainers. If I have to stand all day I might as well feel supported. I have the pleasure of being a barista for a supposed to be French bakery that really just caters to the wants of the masses. And on my regularly scheduled program, I serve hundreds of nameless faces. Except there's one nameless face that I really need to learn the name of. I usually see him on the weekdays, he sits in the corner for about 30 minutes, laboring over his double espresso and chocolate croissant. I throw glances at him from the second he walks in to the second he leaves. He is likewise the object of my regularly scheduled dreams. Except in those we are madly in love and feed each other chocolate covered strawberries. Why does he always pay in cash? Just hand me your damn debit card like every single other person in this city so I can see what your name is!
Opening the shop is easy; the quiet lasts longer than one would expect while the nice old guy Eric makes bread in the kitchens. It always smells amazing, and unlike my hipster counterparts I do not eat gluten free for fun. And even though I'm not "entitled" to breakfast Eric always slides me a croissant or slice of bread with nutella. If you are wondering I strongly believe nutella is the greatest invention of mankind, but that's besides the point. I fill the machines with coffee beans, fill them with water, sweep the floors, wipe the counters and the glass display, sweep again, and take down the chairs from the tables. I check that the ice machine is full. I would hate to disappoint all the millennials who refuse to drink coffee at its normal temperature. Eric brings out the baked goods he's being laboring on since the crack of dawn; an assortment of croissants, dozens of loaves of bread with seeds and all the fancy things people in Brooklyn eat. I stare at the tray of big, warm chocolate cookies as one should as the smell fills the air. In my head I envision myself swimming in a pool of their chocolatey goodness. Scoops of vanilla ice cream appear in bunches and I devour the swarm around me very happily. Alas the clock on the wall chimes pulling me out of my gluttonous fantasy. 7 am. Time to unlock the door and welcome in the paying customers. The first person arrives at 7:10. It's a mom with her 6 children and they all want this and that and "why can't we have McDonalds?" The ball is rolling from then on, but it isn't too busy for me alone. I know the next employee should be showing up at 8, but Lou Ellen is late almost everyday. Pretty sure she does crack on the down low.
Some young kid was attempting to sell me his mixtape while I made his almond milk latte when I saw my dream man walk through the door. I almost said I'd buy it to get the kid to leave faster but I was much too transfixed on the way his hair was parted differently today. The kid must have gotten the memo and left, either way I didn't notice, there was no sound in the room anymore. Mystery man was looking down at his phone, I could see myself writing my number on his receipt, or hopping over the counter and kissing his adorably round cheeks. Does he even like guys? He was petite, with black hair and deep brown eyes with matching bags underneath. His skin had a natural olive tone but was seemingly pale today, probably had something to do with the obvious lack of sleep his face gave away. And his jaw -line? Jeeze, that bone structure is completely unfair. He always had black clothes covering his small frame, I typically imagined what he looked like under those layers. Oh my gosh Will take his order, I said to myself. Not like I had to ask though, he ordered the same thing every morning.
"Next," I heard myself say surprisingly high pitched. Way to go. " Same as usual?" I said, clearing my throat. Was that too forward? Do I want him to know I pay attention? He looked at me sideways and for a moment we made eye contact. Does he know that I draw him at night when I can't sleep? Can he see right through me?
"Actually yes, but let me get that to go." TO GO? " Oh and an extra chocolate croissant."
"Yea sure." I stumble was taking his espresso to go. What if he was going on a trip and never coming back? Or moving? Why did he need to take it to go! WHO IS THE OTHER CROISSANT FOR? It's totally normal, I tell myself. Maybe he just wants likes them so much that he wants another one in the afternoon? Yea. Yea that makes sense.
I had to do something, and fast. I turned to make his drink and grabbed a napkin, then pulled the pen from my apron. I placed the napkin inside the paper bag with the TWO croissants, I totally had this. When I handed him his things he pulled out his wallet but I waved my hand.
"I've got it." Snaps for you Will, that was super smooth, what a gentleman. How can he not call me now? He looked shocked, but not upset.
"Oh, thanks man," he said, and gave me a nod as he walked away.
I can literally hear the wedding bells. When he opens his bag to eat his breakfast my number will be there waiting for him. And then he'll call me and I will finally know his name and cherish the taste it brings everytime I say it. And we'll go to the movies and hold hands in the dark and sing along to theater soundtracks and go to couples painting classes and go grocery shopping together and hold hands and go to the park in the summer and write poems to each other and oh my gosh I only wrote my name on the napkin and nothing else. Just my name. "Will." That's it. That is all the information I have given to the man I'd like to marry who potentially just went on a trip to never come back? Why did he have to part his hair differently today and get me all flustered? Damned attractive idiot.
I was right, Lou Ellen strolled through the door at 8:27.
Thanks for reading3