Coffee Guy is the dude who makes my morning java. Having ditched my usual bistro for lattes more tepid than Woody Allen’s undies, I came upon Coffee Guy like a mirage in the decaffeinated desert. He served coffee like he served me looks – pipin’ hot and ready to go.
He looks like a French mime corked before its recommended year – tall, dark and tattooed (with a distinct Ozzy Osbourne hum). He’s eccentric at best, maniacal at worse.
And has taken a shine. To me.
He breaks into song when I step up to the counter and recently, has enlisted the help of a yenta to make contact. [Yenta, being the lady who greets me each morning and contact, being the taking of said order.] She’s been on a steady campaign to charm my crusty socks off, cleverly eliciting intimate details which then make into conversations with Coffee Guy.
I may be delusional but if she aint his yenta, then she’s hittin’ on me, yo.