Coffee Shop Serial, Part II

Part II

I can’t believe I’m still sitting here.  He’s like nineteen minutes late, and I’m thinking about weddings.  Classic.

It’s not like I was picturing him as the groom or anything.  I don’t even know what he looks like.  Plus, I didn’t really picture a groom.  I’m not getting married any time soon.  My parents got married right out of high school.  You should see the photos.

I probably should’ve brought my roommate with me.  I thought about it, but it was way too embarrassing to tell her what I’m doing here.  Who lets their mom set them up on a blind date, with a guy her mom met standing in line, waiting to order a coffee?  Maybe if she’d met him at Peet’s, he would’ve shown up on time.  Peet’s is classy.  And Peet’s has a hipness factor.  It has to be next to a contemporary art museum or something.  If she’d met him at Peet’s, he’d be here in a suit and tie, inviting me to see a Damien Hirst exhibit.

Anyway, if I’d asked my roommate, she would’ve rolled her eyes at me.  But she would’ve come.  We could’ve walked her black Lab here and tied him to a parking meter.  I would’ve taken little Dixie cups of water to the dog every ten minutes.  I wish I had a cool dog like that.  They give you a sense of purpose.  It’s a small price to pay for the hair all over the couch.

Scary thought:  What if this guy puts one of those pills in my coffee while I’m in the bathroom, waits until I get woozy, and dumps me into the back of his van?  It would be one of those generic, clean, white vans, with the tinted back windows and immaculate front seats.  Maybe a pine tree air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror.

I mean, this isn’t even safe.  I’m risking my personal security.  Not to mention wasting my time.  If I were at the Laundromat, at least I could’ve gotten something done while I endure this humiliation.  Nothing’s worse than a Sunday afternoon at the Lonelymat.  All those worn People magazines and twenty-somethings who won’t make eye contact.  Half of us look mortified to be there and hope no one recognizes us.  The other half acts like they have a more luxurious place to wash their underwear but are doing a sociological experiment.  One time, though, I got a girl to smile at me when I showed her my ex-boyfriend’s favorite  t-shirt and told her I’d been using it to clean the toilet.

I’m giving him like three more minutes, and then I’m totally calling my mom.

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