Bad Coffee

He had tattoos on his arms. His button up shirt and folded cuffs covered them well but one had escaped, seemingly reaching for sweet freedom, reaching for me. His hair was long and black, he wore glasses that framed his face in a flattering mysterious manner. He reminded me of my English professor in my junior year of college. “ I bet he reads poetry and is just the right amount of sensitive” I thought to myself.

He took my plastic card and asked me how my day was. I told him it was good and he walked away to prepare my coffee that I hoped he would make with passion and serotonin. He handed me my card and coffee as I accidentally poked his wrist awkwardly with my index finger while grasping for my dark colored iced coffee in the exchange. We both noticed but said nothing about it, maybe because it created some sort of electricity between us like in the movies and this was the start of something major. Or maybe because it was just weird. I pulled away smiling after wishing him a great day and wondered about him.

I took a sip of my coffee
It tasted like shit.

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