The guy who makes my coffee every morning, at one “Terzetto Coffee,” is a healthy young male in his early 20s, presumably very heterosexual and full of spunk. His accent hints at a Balkan-European descent, supported by the regional pop music from such area(s) he enjoys acclimating his unsuspecting patrons to. I am really fond of him, because of his overall great attitude and enthusiasm for life. He has tight curly hair, as if ponderous thoughts simply bounce off him. Every morning my numbness is briefly punctured by his energy, his kind smile.
I always get an Americano—a double-espresso with hot water, devised to mimic a regular cup of coffee; thus “Americano” is a euro-centric designation for the kind of drink it aims to be, namely, for Americans. Sometimes I see him on the weekends, downtown or something, outside of our respective jobs, and he calls out “Hey, Americano!” as he does not know my name. To him, I am simply Americano. To him, somebody else is just Latte. He lives in a simple world, a world populated with probable/plausible pussy, a world I envy.
But our relationship is not perfect, and here is where the trouble begins. Above, on the x-axis, you will see the glorious five days (M-F) of the work week, which operate as abstract rungs of a very tall ladder leading to a heaven one aims to finally die at. The y-axis presents qualitative numbers commonly referred to as “on a scale of one to ten.” Take this week, just one week in this charade of life. You will notice that, on average, the quality of the coffee our friend makes is a steady 8.0 out of 10—ten being more of a conceptual never-manifested number. Now, please notice that Wednesday’s wonderful 9.4 score is paired with a 3.0 (out of 10) score of the woman who was in line before me, whose role shall be known as the “preceding patron.” All these numbers serve one point: there is an indirect proportion between a woman’s attractiveness, if she is a preceding patron, and the quality of coffee rendered from spunk boy. On Wednesday—so my theory goes—our Balkan buddy, who enjoys flirting with the female customers, was presented little choice but to concentrate fully on making my Americano (e.g. “packing” the ground, “pulling” the shot, incorporating the steamed water, negotiating the timing) being deplete of any desire to flirt with the, to be cruel, unfortunate looking woman. If the woman is simply modest looking (6.5 – 7.0), then the coffee is standard good. I have to thank Wednesday’s dog for the amazing cup of coffee. If that seems cruel, I point you towards God, who is responsible for organizing that face.
Conversely, we shall examine Thursday, the day my coffee fucking sucked (2.1). It was way too thin, from a delinquent “pull,” a dreary brown pool of coffee flavored water, just a tad stronger than tea. And behold—why, might we ask, was the coffee so horribly executed? Because our Balkan bro here had his dick ravaging at his zipper inside his pre-cum drenched pants whilst talking on > on > on to the gorgeous woman (9.6, Rococo face, stripper eyes) whose coffee he was giving way more attention to. I would have helped him with a cream joke, but I was upset. Call me a mister cockblock, but I just feel customer service ought to transcend putang.
I am not a bitter person, but prefer my coffee without sugar. Sweetness might get you a better cup of coffee, or a even date, but it takes a truly morally minded man to stand in line, look at that sweet plush ass before him, and damn this world.