A long time a go, I had a crush on this barista in a small coffee shop nearby my office in midtown. He is not too tall, pretty lean with just the right amount of muscles. And oh so handsome and he starred with a deep cut to your soul. I think he used to wear a black-rimmed glasses, the kind of look that I imagine was stolen from from Raphael Saadiq Vintage Ray era. I didn’t really pay attention until one day he told me my cortado has 4 shots of espresso and he hoped it does the work for my Monday morning.
Almost every morning (because sometimes went straight for a morning meeting), I passed by the coffee shop window and smiled or waved at him. Heart skipped a beat. By the time I got to the order counter, my coffee is ready. He handed me the cup and I sheepishly received it. His left arm was tattoed with a Keisya written in big cursive letters. Almost covered the whole lower arm.
For once I would like to believe that Keisya is a name of a country.
But I am a geographer, and this lie can only stays a second in my head.