January 28, 2008
A Cup of Jo


She doesn’t know I exist. Sure, she takes my two clammy dollars and single quarter for my medium half-caf and she punches my card, and she puts the .13¢ in the ceramic jug that is labeled “Tips!” and adorned with jaunty daisies, but she doesn’t see me. I am reduced to my faceless caffeine addiction in the face of her casual neglect of my existence. I nothing but a cup of joe.

But her, she is a being of extraordinary beauty, and she knows it. She wears her beauty like a dress she found in a bargain bin at a church sale. It cost her little and therefore merits just that much regard. Her hair is defiantly highlighted in great swarthy swatches of blonde that stride strident against her natural oak brown. Her almond skin is bare of make-up, but for two level lines that march across her eyelids, just above her lashes, and streak out toward her temples. Sometimes her lips bear the lightest brunt of berry-hued gloss, but most usually not.

People already stop and stare, so why court their attention, or so I’d guess her thinking goes, for I’ve never spoken to her other than to order, obsequiously, my cup of coffee. What would I say? I quell and quake before her. She and her beauty and her disregard of it and her inescapable pulse of cool render me speechless. I am stuck dumb.

She’s just a little thing. A wee thing. She’s tiny. She reaches my shoulder, or maybe my fourth vertebrae, if one were to place her back to back with me, her slight shoulders touching mine, her back curving away from mine in a graceful, if uneven, pas-de-deux, her ass cupping under the swell of mine. Were one to measure us like schoolchildren—and that would not be my first choice of position of physical proximity—she might barely reach the back of my neck. She’s tiny, and she slays me.

She’s skinny too. All pipe-cleaner arms and bendy-straw legs. All thin fillets of muscle and delicate bird-bones. All over she’s reedy, wispy, a veritable slip of a girl. Her body runs like a rivulet, like a length of silk, like the curl of steam that rises from my cup when I palm it, warm and fragrant, in my hands. I’d prefer to be cupping her.

Her breasts: I must worship them. Here, from afar, on the page, and in my mind, if not there, in the shop, my hands prowling like burglars under her calico dress or ironic tee. Her breasts demand devotion; they are things of surpassing glory. They defy her tiny frame, for they are large and clearly luscious. They hang like peaches, and I really like her peaches; I want to shake her tree. These are dizzy-inspiring breasts; they are vertiginous. They make you want to strip her in irreverent abandon just in order to assure yourself that they are as splendid as they appear, hidden as they are beneath her hipster coffee-slinger garb. At least they do if you are me.

Her ass, too, looks breathtaking. I’d like her ass to take my breath. I’d give my breath up, offer it to her to hold as I faced her ass, round and café au lait-colored and warm and smelling like fresh nuts and old honey, and inhaled it. I’d give my breath to place her face down and ass up on some eiderdown to have my deviant ways with her private parts. In my licking, sucking, slurping, prodding, nudging, nuzzling and teasing wake, I’d like to leave her gasping. I’d like to see her face discomposed. I’d like to make her eyeliner run. I’d like to see her undone.

I’d like to drink her up to her dregs. I’d like to pick her out of my teeth. And then, later, I’d like to run my tongue over my teeth and savor her flavor. I’d like that a lot.

But all I can do now is look and look away, trying not to look too long. All I can do now is give her my money for my cup of joe, drop an extra buck in the tip jar, and accept her punch in my card like it’s a kiss from an idol. All I can do now is look at her and mumble, Nice shoes.


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