The Barista: A Dating Story

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The barista's name was Steve.

My best friend and I frequented the mall at age 20.  You know, at that in-between age when we were too young for the bars but couldn't quite get our enthusiasm up for the 18 and overs.

My bestie and I loved going to the movies and it wasn't unlike us to see 2 or 3 flicks in a week.  We were free to date no one and everyone and we always chose to date each other.

Maria and I would go to the Ontario Mills, like, A LOT and part of our routine was to get a Starbucks coffee or a blended coffee drink from GameWorks (I know, who woulda' knew Gameworks had bomb blended drinks?).

And the cute barista drew me in more than I needed.

Maria and I, to this day, blame our "Freshman 15" on Steve and all our blended coffee drinks.

Steve was foxy back then (he later became completely gross and unfoxy, so I need to stress "back then".)

Steve would flirt shamelessly and on one clever occassion he wrote his name and phone number on the bottom of my coffee cup.

He winked and said, "Call me, my number's on the cup."

Okay, I know it sounds completely cheeseball and totally like something Zac Efron would say to Vanessa Hudgens in High School Musical, but... so what?
It turns out Steve had made it his trademark to leave his name and number on cups.

After some time I caught on that Steve, who was once very foxy, had a not-so-foxy girlfriend and a slew of other ladies in waiting.

I didn't wallow in sorrow, I promise.  But finding a new coffee joint in the Mills became tough.

I lost 10 pounds that year.  Thanks, in part, to skipping the blended bevvies brewed by Steve....

So as I lost some pesos around the middle, Steve got himself a job at the food court, and, lets just say the bourbon chicken caught up with him.

A couple years later on a stint home from college, I saw him and could hardly recognize him.  Where hath though hotness gone?  Karma works weird, man.

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