Today I will be a hopelessly romantic teenage girl. A warning that excuses me from being judged by you or anyone who may come across this short recount.
I met a boy no more than three days ago. He displayed enough qualities for my imagination to paint him into the perfect man (that is in spite of minor flaws like not being foreign or fluent in French). Naturally, he took absolutely no interest in me. I was just a silly girl to him.
We exchanged a few words about a speakeasy cafe we both live close to. Neither of us had been, but knew of it. I expressed my love for latte art and how the moment when you first see the barista’s design as he places the steaming latte over the counter is the only reason to ever pay so much for coffee. He laughed, but I haven’t decided if it was a genuine laugh or a courteous one. The perfect man is always courteous.
It’s Saturday morning and I’ve come to this cafe in hope that our conversation or maybe the forces of destiny will have inspired him to come here and run into me. Then our love story will play out as it did in the last few chapters of my dreams this morning, the kind of dreams you choose to have.
There is no sign of this boy, which makes me the silly girl he thought me out to be. How I wish I could just give up hope on these fairy tales.
P.S. - The latte art here is terrible. Go figure.