I've gotten into the habit of stopping for an ice coffee on the way to the bus stop every morning. I used to only do this once or twice a week, but things have been busy lately and I've felt like indulging myself. The promise of a daily caffeine whoosh is a nice incentive to get out of bed. The sexiness in all this (it's certainly not my morning breath slowly transitioning into coffee breath) is the coffee shop I always stop at is staffed by a band of indifferent, tattoo-wielding hipsters with lip rings. Swoon. Almost as good as the prospect of an early morning caffeine high is the minute I get to spend in line at the register staring dreamily at the scornful stereotype on the other side of the counter.
It's dangerous to get too carried away with an attraction to someone in a relative position of authority. Would I really be attracted to this rabble of flannel-wearers were they not the beguiling gatekeepers of my morning fix? It's hard to even think about flirting with any of these women because they seem so self-aware of their position as objects for ogling. They slam the cash register shut with cold efficiency, their eyes are combative, and they slouch with impatient condescension waiting for customers to spit out their orders. Only being a semi-regular customer, I'm greeted with the same anonymous disinterest as any other schlep. Having switched my consumption habits, however, I've noticed one of the women working the register and bagel assembly line seems to be warming up to me.
After three consecutive mornings of patronage last week, I noticed a softening recognition as she watched me deliver my line. "Ice coffee to go, please." She didn't smile, but she let her eyes stay on me a second longer than necessary. It felt like a subconscious recognition: oh yeah, it's that guy with the plastic door pass hanging off his belt loop. He's going to order an ice coffee and have his money already out before I ring him up.
A few days later I noticed that my appearance actually produced a little smile. When it was my turn at the register I noticed the angle of her head tilt shifted up, her eyes softened, and a reluctant grin spread over her lips. As I handed her my money she let her fingers brush across my palm. When she returned with my cup of coffee she smiled again and stood still in front of me for a split second. She didn't customarily slide the cup onto the counter on her way back to the register to deal with the next customer. She squared her shoulders, looked me in the eye, and smiled as she held out the cup.
I immediately felt like I should say something, but some vague instinct told me not to. I took the coffee and walked down the counter to get a lid and a straw. Do I really want to make a pass with the counter person at my favorite coffee shop? Do I really even like her, or is it just the canine instinct swelling up in me, knowing an opening exists. Must I pounce first and think about the consequences later?
A few months ago, I noticed a new woman waiting at the bus stop. She got off at an outcropping of biotech companies one stop before mine, somewhere in the suburban wastes of Southern San Francisco. I wasn't attracted to her, but my instincts pricked up because she was young and seemed available, which was a nice contrast to the crazy old Chinese spinsters and slouching construction workers who are my usual company on the bus. While I didn't really want to pursue anything with this woman, I felt the same subconscious instinct to pounce. I took the way she looked at me out of the corners of her eyes, not wanting to look right at me but not willing to look away, to be an indicator of attraction. My inner caveman primped and rippled with a new possibility.
But I let my inner caveman dangle. Weeks turned into months, her pretending not to look at me, and me wondering why I wasn't talking to her. Whenever I turned in her direction I caught the tail end of a move, her head just turning away in the nick of time. When I see her now, it's almost exhausting to bear the weight of her shriveled attraction and my relative indifference to it. Aside from not being overly-attracted to her, would it be worth it to try and test my own subjective prejudices with someone I have to see everyday regardless of the outcome?
Suppose I did say hello to her one morning, offering a compliment about the new pair of red Mary Jane's she was wearing. A conversation would be struck up and maybe we'd agree to get a drink one night. We'd have stiff first date conversation, try and up-sell each other, and then part ways. If we kissed, would that turn into a sad obligation the next morning waiting for the bus? If we didn't kiss, would the resentment at things not quite working out turn into the same resentment? I didn't care enough to find out. The convenience of being able to ride the bus relatively free of all those unspoken questions looming up was worth more to me than the experiment of testing the limits of my own superficiality.
But the woman in the coffee shop is much more enticing. Like a lusty daydream in fleshy form, sprung from that same superficiality. Should I brush back tomorrow, when her fingers linger over my palm again? Should I ask her some disingenuous question about the arboreal tattoo on her forearm before retreating down the counter for my straw? Should I let the nascent attraction dry up, turning into that same callused sense of disappointment I experienced with the woman on the bus? Is it worth risking the safe harbor of a peaceful cup of coffee at my favorite coffee shop for a pass at someone who I might only be attracted to because she sits behind a counter like an imperial queen of hipster commerce?
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