The Barista

Needing to sign some paperwork, I met my insurance agent on Saturday morning at Starbucks. Long story, but the short version is that the office where we usually meet was closed on account of the foot of snow that had dumped on the Cleve over the previous 24 hours.

Walking into Starbucks, I was hit with a sudden wave of excitement. I felt like a real person. A normal person. And even though I don't drink coffee, I smiled and nodded knowingly at the lady who asked for my order. I mean, I'm just like everyone else, right? I asked for a hazelnut steamer (basically glorified warm milk), and when the lady asked what size I wanted, like an idiot I responded with, "What are the choices?" (My aunt J would surely die from shame if she heard this story.)

After listening to what sounded like gibberish but what was actually a list of sizes and corresponding ounces, I reverted back to the familiar. "I'll have the middle one." I was obviously an imposter.

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