Sunday Scribblings: Coffee
The Barista of His Dreams
The first time, he simply followed the rush of maintenance workers who moved like an amoeba through the doors to the tiny bar in the Italian Alps resort town of Cesana Torines.
He ordered at the counter, imitating as best he could the workers as they ordered their morning ritual of a rich, creamy espresso and a brioche – filled with chocolate almond paste – all while fumbling with the Euro coins to pay.
He ate and drank at the counter, as did the boisterous workers, who stood and made sport of Barista. She was tall and curvy, a head of brunette curls that framed her olive-colored skin. Giant brown eyes, full lips, from where a slight scar – the shape of a sickle moon – originated. Her jeans were designer and tight. Her T-shirt was white, a size too small, and accentuated those dangerous curves, the richness of her skin.
She looked into his eyes and smiled. He was smitten.
Every day for two weeks, while his contract work continued, he followed the workers into the bar, ordered an espresso and a brioche and ached to say something witty in whatever broken Italian he could muster. She largely ignored him, yet always waited to brew his cup last, so as to clear out the workers who chattered at her obsessively.
The morning on the day his contract expired, along with the work visa, he let he workers clear before entering the bar. She worked a rag over the machine, which was an old copper contraption of tubes, whistles and steam.
“Lo prendo caffe, per favore.”
“Brioche?”
“Si, grazie.”
He eyed the marble counter, fearful of the tears that might come if he looked at her oval face, her hazelnut-colored eyes.
She took her time this morning, packed the grounds tight, worked a small spoon over the porcelain cup. She placed a sugar packet – although he never used it – on the saucer along with a tiny spoon. She slid it toward him and took a step back.
There, in the froth of his last espresso, was a heart.
He looked at the heart, looked into her eyes.
She cocked her head, lowered her eyes, smiled.
The first time, he simply followed the rush of maintenance workers who moved like an amoeba through the doors to the tiny bar in the Italian Alps resort town of Cesana Torines.
He ordered at the counter, imitating as best he could the workers as they ordered their morning ritual of a rich, creamy espresso and a brioche – filled with chocolate almond paste – all while fumbling with the Euro coins to pay.
He ate and drank at the counter, as did the boisterous workers, who stood and made sport of Barista. She was tall and curvy, a head of brunette curls that framed her olive-colored skin. Giant brown eyes, full lips, from where a slight scar – the shape of a sickle moon – originated. Her jeans were designer and tight. Her T-shirt was white, a size too small, and accentuated those dangerous curves, the richness of her skin.
She looked into his eyes and smiled. He was smitten.
Every day for two weeks, while his contract work continued, he followed the workers into the bar, ordered an espresso and a brioche and ached to say something witty in whatever broken Italian he could muster. She largely ignored him, yet always waited to brew his cup last, so as to clear out the workers who chattered at her obsessively.
The morning on the day his contract expired, along with the work visa, he let he workers clear before entering the bar. She worked a rag over the machine, which was an old copper contraption of tubes, whistles and steam.
“Lo prendo caffe, per favore.”
“Brioche?”
“Si, grazie.”
He eyed the marble counter, fearful of the tears that might come if he looked at her oval face, her hazelnut-colored eyes.
She took her time this morning, packed the grounds tight, worked a small spoon over the porcelain cup. She placed a sugar packet – although he never used it – on the saucer along with a tiny spoon. She slid it toward him and took a step back.
There, in the froth of his last espresso, was a heart.
He looked at the heart, looked into her eyes.
She cocked her head, lowered her eyes, smiled.
Comments
P.S. I'm quite sure that same woman is tending bar at North Star Brewery in Redding ;-) Sucks for you! ;-)
-- Snarky Panks
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