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  And now we continue with our next installment of Formerly Fun's BlogOpera.
When we last left off, our heroine had flirted casually with the tousled, attractive barista at the local coffee shop. They laughed, they twinkled, they connected. Where will the story go next? - F. Lawrence Caslin
BlogOpera (pt 2) I clearly remember the first time he said my name. He must have overheard somebody talking to me or asked somebody who knew me because though we had shamelessly flirted for weeks, we had never formally introduced ourselves. Or maybe he just read it off my credit card. I had just finished a run and was treating myself to a green tea latte.
It was a Friday, and he didn't usually work which is why I was satisfied with being a sweaty mess rather than the effortless perfection I usually aimed for. I approached the empty counter and he came around from the back hefting a stack of large boxes. He dusted off his hands on his sides, set the boxes down and sidled up to the register.
"Did you just call here Natalie?" he said sounding almost grave.
"No?" I replied, confused.
"Yeah, it was you," he responded, nodding his head as if to confirm it.
"I'm pretty sure I didn't make any phone calls to my local coffee shop today."
"Yeah, definitely you."
 "Oh, right, I totally forgot, I did call, I wanted to know if you had any lemon bars left," I said sarcastically.
"I knew it," he sounded satisfied.
"I didn't call," I said getting irritated.
"Well, you should have."
I ordered my drink, slightly aggravated.
"To go please, I'm going home."
"Where's that?" he asked.
"Why do you inquire?" I said almost offering it up as a challenge. We had gone on like this for weeks and he kept making subtle and not so subtle hints that he'd like to ask for my number.
"In case we start delivery service. Just trying to be proactive," he said seriously but that wide grin of his spread across his face.
"Really," I said flatly.
"Yep, you never know when you might need a lemon bar and you're in your jammies", he said as he handed me my latte.
"Listen," I said and in a moment of boldness took the napkin from around my drink and grabbed the pen from his hand, "I'm right around the corner, if you ever want to stop playing games and act on this, this"-- I stumbled for the words --"this, whatever this is between us, here."
I thrust the slip of paper at him, turned around and walked out before I had a chance to feel the awkwardness and abject disgust at myself that would come later that night when I sat wondering which coffee shop I'd have to go to from now on, since clearly, I'd be too embarrassed to go back to that one.
I walked the block from café to home past the flower shops, resale shops, and consignment furniture stores that peppered the historic district where I lived. I heaved up the steps of the porch, my legs tired from the run, and opened the heavy wooden door to my apartment. I peeled off my clothes and got into the shower both to rinse off the sweat and grime and also to stop my mind from replaying my impulsive, presumptive diatribe.
I picked up the house, opened the front door to let the cool ocean breeze wash through, fixed myself dinner and hunkered down to watch some television. An hour or so later the news was about to start when I heard the rattle of someone knocking against the thin, metal screen door. I clicked off the television and walked to the door. (to be continued ...) |
Formerly Fun
