Like any true romantic, I am always on the lookout for ‘the one’. What is life, if not a festive dance of fancy fornication, fidelity, and a healthy desire to share meaningful interests with that special person that makes your heart develop complicated arrhythmias?
But I’ve flittered from one relationship to another, only to find myself alone again and feeling dejected. Men are such fickle creatures. The constant complaints, the incessant whining, the ‘me me me’ center-of-the-universe mentality… Who knew men would find these qualities so undesirable? After much self examination and an unfortunate home shock treatment involving my toaster and a bent fondue spear, I know where the real blame lies. Not with me, of course. Not even with the losers I’ve failed to forge meaningful bonds with.
It’s all His fault.
Every night, as my java buzz finally drops me into languid slumber, he stares down at me. He watches with that warm loving smile while I toss and turn and drool on my pillow. He is the first to greet me as the morning sun tickles my eyelids and the coffee pot that operates on a timer heralds me with the delicious aroma of deliciousness. He is the almighty and the all-knowing. The alpha and omega.
I’ve kept his poster taped to the ceiling above my bed since the young age of eleven, when my love of coffee began. For years I have studied every line on his gentle face, the sweet turn of his eyes when he smiles that smile that says, “Come on, have some of my coffee. It’s delightful.” I’ve longed to tickle the moustache curtaining his fiery Latin lips and trail kisses along his white fedora. And while I’ve heard from many nay-sayers that he is merely a marketing ploy for the National Federation of Coffee Growers of Colombia and not a real person, I know in my heart that he is out there somewhere.
Suffice it to say, I was a tangle of shock and elation when fate moved my dream man into the house next door.
I noticed the new occupancy when I arrived home one evening to see a red convertible Smart Car parked in the neighboring driveway and cardboard cartons scattered over the unkempt lawn. I wonder which box contains the coffeepot, I wondered. Such details are important when sizing up new neighbors. I needed to know who I was dealing with. Heaven forbid my new neighbors turn out to be… dare I say it… tea drinkers. I peeked into a couple of open boxes before spotting a box labeled ‘kitchen’.
But as I pried the tape off one side, a man appeared in the doorway. Caught in the act, I froze, smiled… then fainted.
When I came to, he was standing above me, concern swimming in his deep espresso eyes. His moustache matched the warm chocolate of his curly hair. He wore a t-shirt and jeans, but you added a fedora and poncho, you could paste his picture to my ceiling and not know the difference.
As he helped me to my feet, I tried to think of something really stellar to say, something that would leave an astounding impression on him. I opened my mouth, and emitted a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sheep on a treadmill.
He smiled, and when he did, sunlight gleamed off his teeth and nearly blinded me. I sighed, sinking into his gaze as I lovingly stroked his furry forearms. Then I realized he had been speaking to me, and I hadn’t heard a word he said.
Damn it! In my daydreams, we would meet, and I would launch into an eloquent Spanish monologue before erupting into a flawless rendition of ‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina.’ He would be so moved that he would bend on one knee and propose marriage, offering me a solid gold mug full of his home grown Café Olay. We would run away, wed immediately, and spawn a handful of little latte colored children.
But for all my elaborate planning, I totally forgot to learn Spanish.
Cheeks flaming, I mumbled the only Spanish sentence I knew. “Dónde este pavo frío.”
He shrugged, still smiling, but obviously concerned as I scrambled away.
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