Every morning, I walk to the cafe for my Caramel Frappuccino and a glimpse at him. His mocha-coloured skin and almond-shaped eyes. The sound of my name pronounced crisply and correctly. The warm oak countertop steadies my nerves as I drum my fingers on it in a pre-caffeinated stupor.
Every afternoon, I walk to the restaurant for a plate of Spaghetti aglio e olio and a glimpse at him. His hands work like clockwork; rolling out fresh pasta and dishing out instructions to the Saucier at the same time. The satisfying click-clack of the server’s heeled shoes as she approaches me. The scratch of the errant garlicky breadcrumbs that have jumped from my fingertips and nestled themselves into the fibres of my woollen skirt.
Every evening, I walk to the bakery for my Pain au chocolat and a glimpse at him. His grin is as fresh as a ripe, citrusy blood orange. The rustle of my to-go bag as it passes from his hands into mine. The cool glass numbing my fingertips as I brush them slightly on the glass display case.
I wonder whether I’ll ever choose to change my daily routine of glimpsing at these culinary Adonis-es from afar and actually ask them out for a cup of coffee / lunch date / wine-and-dessert pairing soiree respectively.
Author’s note: This post was inspired by the awesome Belgian waffle I ate an hour ago.