Macchiato

“And can I get your name?” the John Mayer-esque said. I wish this was in the context of him hitting on me, but he was behind a counter and he was taking my order.

I thought about it for a second and said “Chantry.” He scribbled the name with a sharpie on the venti paper cup.

“I like that: Chantry”, he said and I felt guilty because it wasn’t my real name and I had never been called that in my life. I liked to make it up, because I felt like a new person, and no one would ever know.

“Thanks,” I beamed. I liked being Chantry already. I thought, this guy might actually turn out to be interested in me, and that’s why I chose an interesting name, and not my default name: Nicole. Yes, my parents pulled that name from the top of the list of most popular baby names of the year.

“No problem, have a good day,” he said. He was probably not as old as he looked; they say that beards can put on ten years. He was probably close to my age. He had a defined build from what I could tell, and pale jade eyes. He looked like he would fit the character of Zoey Deschanel’s love interest in just about any movie starring Zoey Deschanel, except the one where she played a lesbian.

“Thanks, you too. You’re newly employed here?” There wasn’t a line behind me. This starbucks was the closest to home and if I ever saw him here, I would’ve noticed.

“Yeah, actually, is this your regular coffee shop?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty close to my house and I’m a loyal starbucks customer.”

“Well, next time you come here we could talk in other circumstances,” he indicated the cash machine.

I couldn’t help it, I giggled and I could feel my face turn red, and someone lined up behind me. “I’d love that,” I said.

“Well, can I get your number?”

“You know what, I don’t have it memorized and I don’t have my phone right now.” I thought for a while. “I think you can find my home number in the yellow pages, if those even exist anymore.”

He laughed. “Sure, Chantry, what’s your last name?”

I was frozen. Yeah, Chantry, what is your last name, I thought. “Macchiato,” I compulsively spat, using the chalk board menu as inspiration, and I darted out of there without my coffee and never came back again.