Velouria (velouria) wrote,
Velouria
velouria

Mocha Choca Latte Ya Ya.

Lady Architect was downtown for a meeting and sent me a text asking what room I was in so that we could catch up. She drug a nearby chair into my eensy weensy cubicle and proceeded to inform me of all that I was missing in my ex-building. When the conversation turned to Architect (never a favorite topic of hers), she snapped that he was an engineer, not an architect. What? I disconnected from the conversation and ruminated over all the times I'd called him an architect. He'd never corrected me. "I bet you didn't go to architect school for this," I'd said when he was lamenting having to carry a full-body shield to protect himself from inmates throwing fecal matter. He had looked down and smiled, but then he was always looking up or down or over my head at the plant behind me like he was Stevie Wonder. Huh. 

Chris (Mr. Front Lawn) died of Diptheria or otherwise disappeared into the ether long ago. Never heard from him again. When I'm Onto You You Lesbian called me up the other day to ask the status of my lovelife, I briefly described the Chris situation. I said it was better this way anyway, because if I were actually boning him and he was carrying on like this, I'd be forced to walk down the street and firebomb his place of residence. I'm Onto You responded by asking if it was me that had recently made the news burning down an entire wing of a local mall (no) and said that he'd know who to select from a lineup if my current workal building goes up in flames. "Yep, that's her. That's Pocahontas. Book her."

Arson aside, lately I've devoted my attention to a dude at the downtown Starbucks I refer to as Baristo. We have a moment every morning as he so skillfully concocts my caramel-apple-spiced-mocha-whatever. I know we're having a moment, because I'm an expert at moments. I was always having them with Archi, err, Engineer when he wasn't looking over my head at the plant. This particular Starbucks doesn't have the practice of asking my name and then writing it incorrectly all over my food (example), so getting to know each other has been even slower going than usual. I'm so focused on not lisping the words sausage and sandwich, romance takes a backseat.

I am currently searching their online menu for a food item without an S in it for our Monday moment. Not looking good. I will likely be stuck with that 12-dollar "Protein Pack" consisting of a slice of apple and a wedge of cheese. Gross. The things I do for love.
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