“Grande Caramel Macchiato with a shot of vanilla.”
“Will that be all, sir?”
“That’s all I asked for, isn’t it?”
“Right away, sir. Your total will be $4.40.”
“Fuckin’ highway robbery.”
The air was thick “ a nasty thick, filled with the odor of coffee beans and conversation. Starbucks isn’t my kind of place, but it’s raining fucking cats and dogs outside and I won’t make it to work without a pick-me-up, so I stopped at the Starbucks on Water Street by the South Street Seaport to get my fix.
I got my caramel motherfucker and turned around to a shitload of tables and no empty chairs. Just my goddamn luck. Life in New York ain’t easy, and this is one of those “Fuck it” moments. I grabbed a New York Times off the newsstand, and took the first available opportunity at a seat.
I sat down across from this little slice of chocolate who was playing around with her cell phone. Acting like I didn’t see her, I just opened my paper and glanced over the sports section.
“Yo,” I heard from behind the paper.
Let’s see, NBA pre-season. Eh, who cares? Football. Shit. Baseball!
There was another sound behind my reading material and a tap to follow it. “I said, ‘Hey.’”
I peered over my paper to look into the eyes of the woman across from me. I was met with dark brown skin, short black hair, and with what appeared to be a nice, sizeable rack under her pumpkin-colored sweater. Fuckable, definitely. I guess I could answer her. “Actually, you said, ‘Yo.’”
“Bad morning?” she asked. The way the ‘or’ in ‘morning’ came out told me she was a native of this God-forsaken city.
“Do I know you?”
“You can if you lighten up.”
“I’m busy.” I reverted back to my paper.
“What’s in that paper that’s so much more interesting than me?”
“Among other things, the Red Sox.”
“Say what?”
“Are you deaf or dumb? The Red Sox, baby. Beat the Yankees 5-2 last night. At home.”
“That explains a lot,” she mumbled.
“A lot about what?”
“Your attitude. You’re from Bahston, right?”
“What gave it away?” Dumb ass. “The accent, or the red and gray tie?”
“I’m to assume everyone wearing red and gray and likes the Sux is from Boston?”
“The what?”
“Are you deaf or dumb? Boston sucks.”
“And what do you think you know about baseball, woman?”
“I know the Sox suck, Yankees will kill your team in the rest of the series, and the only reason the Sux won last night is because Adams’s inconsistent pitching fucked it up for Soriano’s perfect game when he hit his leg in the 6th. Not only that, but Posada was out. Otherwise, your boys were done for. Don't fuck with me about the Yanks.” With that, she hopped up from her chair, rising to what I’d assume to be about a 5-foot-9 stance “ I always liked my hoes tall “ and she escaped the Starbucks heat, exchanging it for the cold New York rain.
Damn. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder where she was going, or whether I’d ever see her again. In fact, I’m a fool not to be following her, but the way I see it, hoes are a dime a dozen. Another one, probably bigger and better will pop up before the day is over.
Soon after, in solitude, I finished off my drink, my paper, and followed the lead of the broad. I hate the fuckin’ rain “ always have, always will. It ruins shit. Makes people act like shit. And as if New York doesn’t already smell like shit, it smells even more like shit in the rain. If I had half a brain, I’d take a cab down to the Financial District where my office is, but I have a whole brain, and this traffic would make me later than the walk.
Turning the corner of Water Street, I saw that bitch from my table, leaving CVS with a prescription bag, stuffing it into her big ass brown purse. Not only is she a bitch, but she’s on drugs, too. Figures. Subconsciously, or maybe deliberately, I quickened my pace to catch up to her.
She turned around, underneath her umbrella, flashing a blazing white set of teeth at me, contrasting with the dark brown of her leather jacket. “You just couldn’t stay away, huh?”
I rolled my eyes, knowing she was right. “I have better shit to do than follow you.”
“Then why are you?” She stopped in her tracks and waited for me to pass while I decided to do exactly the opposite. “Just as I thought,” she boasted.
“You’re in my way.” I winked when she stepped to the opposing side of the sidewalk. Not wanting and unwilling to keep going, I peered at her momentarily, letting the drop of the rain on our umbrellas speak for us. She had a weird gorgeousness about her. She wasn’t breathtaking, or even necessarily beautiful “ just a normal pretty, I guess. There was something in her charisma that made her shine, though. Her bright brown eyes that matched her smooth, chocolate skin “ they almost sparkled in spite of the dim, gray morning. They were inviting and warm; innocent and childlike. I would’ve stood there forever, merely gazing, if I were ever willing to let my guard down so quickly and easily. But I’m not. Instead, I sneered at her and resumed my walk to work.
“Good day to you, too,” she beamed.
On my trek to Wall Street, I continued peeking from my peripheral to view her Skittles umbrella. “Now who’s following who?” I asked, not turning.
“I’m going to work,” she answered in a ‘So there, motherfucker’ tone of voice.
“You actually have a job?” I retorted.
“Yeah, black people have jobs, too. Just like women watch baseball.”
I swear to God, I’m gonna backhand this chick. “No shit.”
Finally arriving at 101 Wall, I was relieved to be getting rid of the bitch. Ensuring not to say anything to her, I entered my office building and approached the receptionist desk where one of my many conquests, Lisa, sat at her computer.
Hearing the click of my shoes echoing through the hollow atmosphere of the high-ceilinged lobby, she looked up at me. “Good morning, Mr. Timberlake.” She hates me, but she always greets me with a smile.
“Any mail for me?”
“Just the usual Playboy and FHM magazines.”
“Cute.”
She plopped the respective publications atop the marble counter between us with a roll of her eyes.
“Good morning to you too, sweetheart.” Winking, I grabbed my mail and headed towards the elevators “ only to find my most favorite person of the day pushing furiously at the Up button. “Still following me, huh?”
She turned in the direction of my voice and gave me a look of disgusted shock. “What are you doing here?”
“Well let’s see, genius. I’ve got mail and an access card in my hand. Just maybe I work here.”
She sighed as the ding of the elevator’s arrival interrupted our exchange. Under her breath, she muttered, “No fucking way.”
You can say that shit again, sweetheart.
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