THE NICEST CUPS

Being single again is a bitch. Yes, you are thinking, it took the moron long enough to figure that out. Over three years already, good heavens, is he dense?

No, not dense. Gifted at considering other things. Many other things.
One can easily be distracted from reality in San Francisco.
And I'm very good at that.

Normally I do not think of the other gender at all.


Except that late this afternoon I went across the hill for a cup of tea and sweet bun. There's a new person at one of my favourite bakeries, who is absolutely useless, so no milk-tea. And I had to wait ten minutes for my coffee.
All the seats were occupied by bothersome and inconsiderate Thai ladies, far too busy enjoying their trip to San Francisco and being bossy to realize that the four of them taking ownership of the space and all the tables would leave any other patron flush up against the microwave in a corner, turning green from their cheap perfume and ghastly twittering.
[Thai sounds like a language I could easily grow to hate.]
With no room at all to lift the bun to my face.
Can't really enjoy it without biting.
It's a logistical problem.
So I waited.

Which gave me plenty of time to observe the extremely capable and intelligent woman who works there most often rush about doing everything that her completely useless countryside auntie-thing proved incapable of doing. Getting special pastries from the back. Making a pot of coffee. Restocking the shelves in the display cases.
Counting out change accurately.
And fetching tiramisu.

The gumby village idiot relative had three phone conversations, after which she apathetically cleaned up a bit, and resisted learning about the extra coins and bills. The intelligent young lady demonstrated extreme patience. Remonstrated gently with the woman, and with what must have been superhuman effort refrained from slapping some sense into her.

Black pants, form-fitting. A green sweater, and let us above all NOT forget what sweaters do to the attractive female figure. An expression on her face of amused yet tense resignation to the idiocy of the scrawny older woman. Lively eyes.

Let me repeat. Form-fitting black slacks. Green sweater. Eyes.

And a Dutch American hamsaplo in the corner.
With an uneaten bun, and a cup of coffee.
A man, naturally, observes.


She's got character. And always looks intelligent, and keenly aware. Because she is. But today, she also looked steamingly hot.
Which she...... is.


Unfortunately I have far too much self-control to say anything about that. Boundaries, gentlemanly behaviour, courtesy, and a sense of proper restraint. And loads of similar high-minded crap.


Being single can be a bitch.


Spent an hour over coffee.


Dawdle. Dawdle. Dawdle.



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