Café notes

The girl I’m working with tonight is playing that stupid “sometimes all I think about is you” song. I don’t know why it makes me laugh.

Another coworker quit. Morale is low. Made a vanilla bean frappucino for a cute person with pixie blond hair. They wore headphones while sipping it from their straw.

It’s so damn slow in the café, the calm before the storm of snotty students returning to this college campus.

One of the weird “coinkydinks” that I wanted to tell you about yesterday was that I saw a guy I’ve had a bit of a crush on for about a year applying to work here.

My friend – let’s call her Anaïs – always teases me about my crushes. I thought, when I started crushing on him, that I’d found one we’d both like. (sidenote: She likes ikemen, a.k.a., tall, skinny, pretty anime boys. ) He is incredibly tall. He looks like this but with glasses and has a Russian name. He wears big, comfy sweaters, and wears black rings around his fingers. But Anaïs didn't give him the pass because of his receding hairline. (sidenote: Of course, I fell in love with it. It makes him look wise beyond his years. )

But that description and her judgement only cover silly, superficial things – things I wouldn’t give much thought if it weren’t for the way he writes and paints. He jots down poems in iambic pentameter, and he said he loved Alexander Pope as a kid and loves e. e. cummings as an adult. That is a man after my own heart.

One time, I shared a broken attempt at a sonnet, something about feeling a warm sense of hope burning through winter like a cardinal against the snow, like red lipstick against my pale skin. Right afterwards, he (sidenote: The way he looked up at me in his grandpa glasses... His voice is mumbly, soft like Chet Baker’s. Maybe the resemblance is what hooked me on Chet. ) shared iambs about lying down, and staring at a single blade of grass, and his nihism dying away.

Anyway, back to the present. The café is dead right now. A group of young girls like to come in and play with the water pitcher. They just dumped a bunch of ice on the floor, shouted at one another, and gave me dirty looks. I cleaned up their mess, but I was honestly just grateful to have something to do.

I have to consider if I want to quite the café soon, before the semester starts. After everything I’ve written about lately, you (sidenote: Whoever you are... ) probably wonder why I haven’t already. But tutoring pays even less and something about this routine has become comforting to me. I like mixing together white mocha sauce, espresso, and 2% milk and handing it to people. I like making little girls smile when I hand them their frappucinos. I like the two men who sit and write and talk about their ideas.

The guy who usually buys a bunch of peanut butter pies came in and sanitized his hands about four times today. He walked around the department store several times before buying several bottled iced teas, a sandwich, and a green tea latte which he watched me make very closely. Then, he sat down at a table with his drinks and food, and seemed to be deep in thought.

Mr. Spock came in to visit me, and I sang to him

all the lonely people, where do they all belong?

I got in trouble with my manager for talking to him, even though the café is dead and I prioritize customers when they do come in. Oh well, I can’t argue. She’s right.

I decided, late into my shift, rushing to close, that I think I’m ready to be done serving java shit crappucinos.

Working as a barista has been an interesting phase of my life, but I should quit while I’m ahead. Just like a shot of espresso, it is expiring quickly, and is beginning to taste bitter.

Receipt doodles of the day.