It was just another Tuesday when I found myself at my local coffee shop. You know the type: where the coffee is strong, the pastries are freshly baked, and the ambiance is both cozy and slightly chaotic. That day, however, the chaos was elevated by the entrance of a charming waitress. Let’s call her Sarah.
As I sipped my cappuccino, I noticed Sarah moving like a graceful ballet dancer among tables, balancing plates, and flashing smiles that could make even the grumpiest coffee drinker crack a grin. Before I knew it, my heart was doing the tango, and I was plotting my next visit just to see her.
Just as I worked up the courage to ask for her name, fate played its hand. Sarah announced her break, slipping away just as I was ready to charm her with my best one-liners (which, by the way, need way more practice). I waited. I hoped. I even ordered one more slice of cheesecake just to prolong my stay. But when she returned, it was with disinterest—and perhaps a hint of confusion—as she resumed her hustle.
It became clear that this whirlwind romance existed mainly in my imagination, so I did what any warm blooded man would do, I waited for her shift to end and followed her home. I kept a safe distance as not to arouse suspicion. Sarah called the police anyway. She called me a freak, creep, and a lot of other things. She had so many nick names for me, I could tell I was on her mind a lot that day.
