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  • I went to the counter for another refill. I hadn’t any cash and was intent on putting the refill on credit. I’d already had my one free refill you see.

    “No,” she said to me. “He wants to put a refill on credit,” to the other barista.

    “It’s all I have.” I’m sure she didn’t hear me because while I was speaking she said, “Just have another free one.” I couldn’t tell if she was indifferent to my presence, or simply bored with the transaction.

    “I’m not judging you. I think she’s judging you, though.” The other barista had been watching the exchange.

    “I think she’s judging me too,” I said as I started back to the table in the corner.

    She has no interest in me. Can’t blame her. I don’t have much to say when I come in. I don’t have much to say in general, I guess. I’m not even sure if I’m entirely interested in her. Though, I find myself coming back to the café just to see her, just to order a coffee from her. I like how she turns to grab my cup even before I order. I tell myself, ‘she knows me so well.’ It feels good to be known. And really, it’s that I come in and order the same thing every day: One cup. For here. Black. Medium roast.

    “Hey,” she yells, just as I’m sitting down. I look up to see that she’s not talking to me as I had hoped. She’s facing the backroom of the shop, apparently addressing a coworker.

    She is quite attractive: her smooth, fare skin and brown hair. Her eyes are soft and learning. She’d come off as weak and forgiving to anyone that’s never attempted a refill on credit. Rather, she’s a commanding character, though, not dominating. Every so often she asks me a question and in my excitement and my intent to make the most of it, I digress into an anxious monologue, puking sudden statements. A sequence of sentences becomes a juxtaposition of remote subjects. This progression is the reason that I’ve become more and more reserved when I visit the café.

    And yet, daily I encourage that I will ask her out for a drink.

    I won’t. And she wouldn’t go anyway.
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