Maybe I was just in a particularly good mood after a full night of sleep, a couple of hours reading Miroslav Volf out in the sunshine by the lake, a couple more hours in the gym, and creating (and enjoying) my own drinking chocolate concoction when I got to work, but I felt especially talkative when one customer in his twenties or thirties came up to the counter with a kind smile on his face. When he asked me how my day was going he probably didn't expect for me to talk about how strange the seaweed salad I'd tried for lunch was, or how I'd thought it looked like it was composed of torpid, tiny creatures from Monsters, Inc. I wondered if the Pixar reference made me sound like a six year old.
He couldn't decide if it would be better to get an Americano or a coffee before work, because they were the same price. He asked me what I would get (why do people ever ask those kind of questions?!). I would never have either, so I told him I would definitely choose an Americano.
While I ran the espresso machine we kept chatting. He was rather nice. He left me a tip and strolled out the door.
I stared out the store's front window and fantasized that he would come back tomorrow. And the following day... And pretty soon he'd discover that he'd been spending too much money on coffee... Because he'd wanted to keep talking to Seaweed Girl. And in my fantasy, imagined Seaweed Girl looked a lot more like Zooey Deschanel than real-life Seaweed Girl actually looks.
Near the end of my workday when I was outside winding a bike lock around the outdoor seating, I caught sight of him down the sidewalk. Fickly, I'd forgotten about my fantasy. I fiddled with the cushions. He didn't look over at me. A girl drove up in an ugly car and he hopped in and off they went. I realized that I was narrating my own quasi-dissapointment in third person.
The average day doesn't usually transpire with chick-flick flair, even if you try to mentally construct it.
The average day is...average.
But sometimes I enjoy the average days, even as little hiatuses from all the intense and profound days, because it is during the average days that I laugh at myself the most.
He couldn't decide if it would be better to get an Americano or a coffee before work, because they were the same price. He asked me what I would get (why do people ever ask those kind of questions?!). I would never have either, so I told him I would definitely choose an Americano.
While I ran the espresso machine we kept chatting. He was rather nice. He left me a tip and strolled out the door.
I stared out the store's front window and fantasized that he would come back tomorrow. And the following day... And pretty soon he'd discover that he'd been spending too much money on coffee... Because he'd wanted to keep talking to Seaweed Girl. And in my fantasy, imagined Seaweed Girl looked a lot more like Zooey Deschanel than real-life Seaweed Girl actually looks.
Near the end of my workday when I was outside winding a bike lock around the outdoor seating, I caught sight of him down the sidewalk. Fickly, I'd forgotten about my fantasy. I fiddled with the cushions. He didn't look over at me. A girl drove up in an ugly car and he hopped in and off they went. I realized that I was narrating my own quasi-dissapointment in third person.
The average day doesn't usually transpire with chick-flick flair, even if you try to mentally construct it.
The average day is...average.
But sometimes I enjoy the average days, even as little hiatuses from all the intense and profound days, because it is during the average days that I laugh at myself the most.
Painful. Painful to read of your disappointment, painful to see at which direction your attentions went, painful in many facets; though relieving to see that you are emotionally healthy enough to be able to laugh at yourself when awakening from daydreams. There are other, more racking sources for pain, still in that spiraling realm of emotion. The most prominent one being I did not get to wish you well and say goodbye. How foolish.
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