'Today your barista is: 1. Hella gay. 2. Desperately single.' Ted chuckled. It wasn't rare for the signs outside coffee shops to be comedic, but never had he seen them used to pick up potential dates. New York, right?
He yanked on the door handle to the little shop. Most people preferred the big chains, like Starbucks or Costa, so thankfully there was no line. The sole customer was an old man sat at a table in the corner, sipping his coffee and idly flipping through a newspaper. The barista looked understandably bored, elbows resting on the counter, eyes flitting about aimlessly. As he heard the door swing shut behind Ted he stretched his face into a shiny, fake smile, which soon gave way to a real one when he caught sight of him.
"You see my sign outside or are you here for a coffee?" he asked.
"I don't... I'm not... Yeah, just a cappuccino please."
"To go?"
"Yeah, thanks."
"Shame," the barista said with a smirk, before turning to the coffee maker. He was handsome, Ted supposed, with blond hair and a strong jawline. It was normal for a straight guy to think that, right? He was allowed to appreciate that another guy was handsome. It wasn't like he'd ever date him.
"So, you single?" the barista called, still facing the machine.
Ted felt his face flush. "I-I'm flattered, but I'm really not... I don't, uh, swing that way."
"Right," the barista said before turning around. "You're hot, though."
"Ironic," Ted chuckled weakly. The barista raised an eyebrow. "Because... because you work in a coffee shop," he explained. "And, and -"
"And coffee is hot?" Ted nodded, not trusting himself to speak any more. "I think it would be best if you kept your mouth shut for a while, because that was embarrassing for everyone."
The old man in the corner let out a laugh. "It was, kid."
The barista handed Ted a cardboard cup. "Cappuccino to go."
"Thanks," Ted smiled.
"You are hot, though. I wasn't kidding about that. You know what, we should go out for coffee some time. Hey, look at this! Perfect, right?"
Enthusiastically, he slid over the counter and grabbed Ted's shoulder, guiding him to a table.
"Dude, I told you, I'm straight," Ted protested.
"And gay guys only ever hang out with other gay guys? Is that what you're saying? You're so homophobic - what's your name?"
"Ted."
"You're so homophobic, Ted. Why does this have to be a date? Why can't we just be two guys hanging out?"
"But you said I was hot, so I assumed -"
"Homophobic."
An awkward silence hung over the pair. Eventually, the barista's face broke into a wide smile as he collapsed into a chair. Ted slid into the one opposite, smiling tentatively.
"Man, you're easy to mess with!" the barista grinned. "They don't come more 'no homo' than you, do they?"
"What do you -"
"Please," he interrupted. "Oh God, I think the gay guy is flirting with me! Whatever will I do? I can't flirt back, I'm 150% straight, even though I'm totally making eyes at you over the table right now."
Ted averted his eyes. He hadn't been making eyes, right? The guy was just messing with him again. Douchebag.
He hadn't said anything for a while. Make conversation, say something.
"So, uh, what are your hobbies?"
"Making straight dudes uncomfortable. Making 'straight' - " He mimed inverted commas with his fingers. "- dudes question their sexuality." Ted spluttered into his coffee. "See? There it is. You're uncomfortable, I'm amused, everyone's a winner."
"No, I, uh - it was too hot."
"Right. So what are your hobbies?"
"Uh, I like to -"
"Suck at small talk? Pretend you're straight when really you're head over heels in love with me?"
"No, but I do like to finish sentences."
The barista laughed. "Sure. But you are head over heels in love with me."
"No. No, I'm really not. I'm straight, okay?"
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Then why are you on a date with me? Do you not have better things to be doing?"
"I - You said this wasn't a date."
"I don't recall that."
"No, you definitely said it. I remember because you accused me of being a homophobe and started being a real dick about it."
"That does sound like me. I was lying, though. This is totally a date."
"Well then, I'm leaving," Ted sighed, standing up. "You have a trashcan in here? My coffee's finished."
The barista hesitated. "No."
"You don't have a trashcan?"
"Nope."
"There's one here," the man in the corner called, gesturing to something next to him, that yes, was definitely a trashcan.
"No, that's, uh... It's only for dog poop," the barista replied.
"Really? You get a lot of dog poop in here?"
Another hesitation. "Yep."
"Right. Well, you suck at lying and I'm going to throw this cup away. You okay with that?"
"Just - look, just keep it, okay?"
Ted sighed and figured he might as well, if the guy was going to be difficult about it. "Fine. You happy now?"
"Yeah. See you."
"Bye," Ted muttered as he made his way to the exit.
"By the way, you realise you haven't looked at your coffee cup once since you got it?"
Ted stopped short of the door and turned back to face the man. The guy was a douchebag and this was probably just another of his annoying mind games, but it was a weird statement to make. "I'm pretty sure I have."
"Nope. Your eyes have been on me the whole time."
"Okay, well that's a blatant lie. I haven't even looked at you that much."
"You have literally only looked away once. Because I pointed out you were making eyes at me. Huh, funny how I'm pointing out everything you don't want to notice, right?"
Ted glared at the barista. "Or maybe I just don't notice because they're not happening.
"Nope. No, I think you just don't want to notice."
"Blondie's right, kid," the old man piped up. "You haven't looked at it."
"Yes, I - have you been watching our conversation?" Ted demanded indignantly
"Your gay freakout is a lot more interesting than this paper."
"My gay... what?" Ted shook his head. "Okay, look, you're both wrong. I've looked at this cup plenty of times. Man, if it bothers you so much, I'll look at it again."
He pointedly held the cup up to his face, eyes sarcastically widened.
There was a phone number written on it.
"Is this your number?" he demanded.
"Yep."
"Is this why you didn't want me to throw the cup away?"
"It might be."
"You realise I'm not going to call this, right?"
"Sure."
"Okay. I'm leaving. And I'm throwing this cup in the trash the second I do."
"Bye bye now."
"Yeah. Bye."
It was a five minute walk to Ted's apartment. As he stepped up to his door and inserted the key into the lock, he realised the image of the barista's face was still etched into his mind.
Whatever. He was an interesting guy. It had been an interesting conversation. It didn't mean anything.
It didn't mean anything.
But it still bothered him as he stepped into the apartment and slammed the door shut behind him. Who was that guy? What right did he have to mess with him like that, to play mind games, to -
"Dude, is that a number on your coffee?" Marshall asked as he swept past on his way to the kitchen.
"Uh, yeah." Ted hadn't realised until that moment that he still had the cup. He hadn't been kidding when he'd told the guy he was going to throw it away. It wasn't like he cared about the number, or as if it had any sentimental value or any kind of crap like that. Was it his subconscious? Had some part of him wanted to keep it?
He was reading too much into it. Of course he was. He'd forgotten to throw it away. No big deal.
"Sweet," Marshall grinned. "You gonna call it?"
Ted didn't answer. Instead, he stared at the number, as if it held some sort of magic clue, as if staring at it for long enough could cause the barista to materialise in the apartment and yell, "Just kidding!" He stared at the number until his eyes lost focus and the digits started to blur into each other.
"Dude?" Marshall asked hesitantly.
"Huh?" Ted snapped out of his trance. "Sorry, man. I - look, I gotta go."
He hurried into his room, sat down on the bed. Why was this happening? Why had this guy flirting with him changed everything? Why was he now questioning every little thing he did?
But somewhere inside of him, he knew why. He knew exactly why.
And somewhere inside of him, he was aware of himself reaching into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. Somewhere inside of him, he registered that he knew the numbers by heart as he punched them in.
The phone was answered immediately, as if the guy had been waiting by the phone. He probably had.
"Go for Barney."