It occurs to me that the only person who calls me Baby is the guy who sells me coffee in the morning. (For one dollar!) and as I’m walking away and wondering if this is my special cross to bear in life, the intimacy of strangers, he says, “See you tomorrow—” in a way that sounds encouraging, like a pact, a promise. The certainty is immediately appealing. YES! I yell back to him, but the thing is, life isn’t really so simple! Because sometimes I don’t get coffee from him, sometimes I go to the fancier place across from the bus stop and pay 3.75 to avert eyes with the beardo who doesn’t even tell me to have a “happy day!” when I walk away, and then I ended up spilling it all over angry people’s young children when the bus lurches down the block and I feel like the whitest girl who ever whited with my stupid winter hat with a knit flower on the side that kind of makes me want to die. But this guy! This dollar coffee guy! I think he may have just won me over. Because have a ‘happy’ day somehow means so much more than have a nice day or a good day or a great day even. I think it means more. Although I’ll admit I’m wondering now if he accidentally started to say ‘Have a happy new year’ but caught himself just in time to recover. But what the hell, all the better! I think that betrays a certain smoothness of his character that I would be a fool not to admire. A fool not to revisit! ALL I’M SAYING is we’re in love and we’re going to get married have a million dollar-coffee babies.
Hah, this works quite well as a monologue. Well done, meaghano.
