Shawty, you keep playing with my heart.
Things are back on with my ex-husband. Sort of. It’s not like we’re getting married again–we’re taking it slow, you know? Trying to make this work the second time around. We’re still seeing other people, obviously, but just between you and me–things are different. As Carrie Bradshaw told her girlfriends about Big, “It just feels so right this time” or something.
Even though I swore I would never go back to his coffee shop, no matter how delicious his cortados were, something kept pulling me there. Dare I say that “something” was…love?
As I walked to the counter, lips trembling, wrists aflutter, he reached for my credit card before even asking me what my order was. He knew exactly what I wanted. Or did he? I couldn’t help but wonder: was he just using me for my money?
Coy as a geisha, I plucked my card away from him. “I’m getting something different this time,” I said, my voice fraught with meaning. “An iced coffee.” My lips were smiling, but my heart was screaming, Iced like your soul, you heartless bastard! Why don’t you love me anymore?
I arranged myself by the nearest window, letting the sun play gently over my long burnished hair. Okay, full disclosure, I was wearing a huge hockey sweatshirt and my hair was in some sort of bird’s nest disarray from a long day of lying in bed and listlessly flipping through books of poetry. Kind of an off-duty model look. Off-duty unemployed homeless model, age 51. But suddenly the very air of the coffee shop was different. Electricity crackled in my fingertips. My iced coffee appeared on the table and I looked up–up–up into his dark eyes. He was smiling.
“I’ll get you a straw,” he said, and vanished.
By then, my heart was busier than a hive of bees when the virgin queen bees FIGHT TO THE DEATH in order to establish which one will rule. I was filled with a sudden desire to fling myself into his arms. I didn’t care about the fact that he was rude to my grandparents, or the time he tried to kick me out of the coffee shop one minute before closing, or the countless times he told me he couldn’t replace the blue cheese on my salad with something more palatable, or the heartless way he sneered, “We’re out of croissants today.” I didn’t care. I wanted him back.
He brought me the straw and handed it to me with a little bow. I melted. “Thank you,” I said breathily, looking up at him through my impossibly thick eyelashes. He understood me perfectly. “You’re welcome,” he said, and went back behind the counter to steam some milk.