It isn’t often that Chris Hemsworth saunters into your coffee shop.
Well, it isn’t really him, but it might as well be. A tall and stupid-gorgeous blonde with just the right amount of scruff, he’s has the Hemsworth look, but with the dark trench coat and striking stare, he has the Hiddleston feel. Dapper, yet somehow still rugged. He’s the type of guy you would spend a morning drinking earl grey with, chatting about politics, and then he takes you for a ride on his motorcycle. Or skydiving, or something dangerous.
I am unable to move—even my usually twitching caffeine-wired fingers sit perfectly still on my keyboard. All I can do is stare. My brain snaps out of article-writing mode and straight into questions about this attractive stranger, as he gets into line for coffee.
Is he a student here? Likely.
Is there a ring on his finger? (I slowly lean from behind my laptop to get a view of his hand.) Nope.
Girlfriend? Presumably, but there is no visible confirmation.
Does he have a mysterious mind and some dark, dangerous secrets? Absolutely—just look at those eyes.
Is he an underwear model? Probably.
Perhaps an angel? Definitely.
As I creepily (and obviously) examine this fine individual, I feel like I’m narrating some high-def tv show on the Animal Planet. “Observe: a strapping young human male, likely in his early twenties, perhaps somewhat older. Watch as he exchanges valuable parcels for steaming bean-water. This substance is intended for his consumption, as it will provide him with nourishment and energy, vital to his success in the cold, cruel world.”
My obviously brilliant internal monologue briefly causes me to consider a career change to voice actor—watch out, David Attenborough.
After he takes his drink from the barista (I imagine black coffee, with one sugar—like him, it’s tough, but still a little sweet), he turns from the counter, and we make eye contact. He can tell I’ve been staring. We both look down, unsmiling, uncomfortable.
As I desperately attempt to look busy answering emails on my laptop, the reality of my romantic situation hits me.
Attenborough whispers, “Observe: a pathetic young female, terrified of contact with her male counterparts. Though she is of age, her fragile self-confidence leaves her with little hope in finding a suitable mate.”
Unfortunately, my keen observation skills are not enough when it comes to romance. In order to have a chance with this hottie, vocal contact is required. I would have to talk to him.
I justify my silence and the missed opportunity with a plethora of excuses—he’s probably in a rush. He most likely has a girlfriend, and wouldn’t appreciate a strange girl coming up to him. There’s no way he thinks you’re cute. Maybe he doesn’t even speak English. You wouldn’t know what to say. You would make an absolute fool out of yourself.
Coffee in hand, he grips the door handle. And right before he exits, a miracle happens.
Just as I look up, he hits me with those brilliant eyes again, and gives me this gorgeous, Earth-shattering half smile. He pushes the door and exits my life, probably forever. Glowing, I melt into my chair, unable to breathe, and reeking of the gorgeous aftermath of his magic spell.
I think, maybe he did think I was cute.
Or maybe he smiled out of pity. I don’t even care at this point. It happened. It was awesome.
I go back to work, wishing I had the opportunity to pick his brain and solve his mystery. And above everything else, wishing I had the courage to say the first “hello.”
Perhaps one day I will. Then, I’ll seize the opportunity to talk to another coffeeshop cutie. Until then, here’s to romantic opportunities lost, and lessons learned. *sips coffee*
