Dear Barista from Peets,
You don’t know my name, but I’m the one who ordered 3 iced chais on sunday and 2 hot chocolates today. I’m the one who spent four hours in the shop this afternoon. I’m the one who told you I was reading Moby Dick, if only so that you would talk to me.
And you did.
We talked about Ahab and the Pequod and the Great White Whale. You loved the book (almost as much as I pretended to), and you liked talking to me (I think), and then you asked me what school I went to.
I could have lied. You wouldn’t have known; how could you? I was yet another anonymous face, another customer, you didn’t know me enough to discern the faint slur in my words that I get when I fib, or the way I start playing with my hands. But I told the truth, and that’s when you stopped.
“I remember my senior year in high school!” And your voice went up a pitch and her words got shorter and I quickly went from cool to cute.
But I kept talking, if only to hear your voice some more, and have an excuse to look at your eyes and your face and think about how much I wanted to kiss you. And that’s the first time that’s happened with a girl.
I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise, and I’ll stay another 4 hours, and I might even convince you that I’m just as smart as you thought I was when you thought I was 20 and not 17.
I’ll see you when I see you,
The girl who reads Moby Dick