Inner Voice

People go to coffeeshops for various reasons. Some go to down a latte and immerse themselves at work in a nice cosy atmosphere. Some go to socialise with their friends, to escape work, and exchange gossip. Some go to enjoy a freshly brewed aromatic coffee as they soak in the sunshine and the brilliant weather. I go to the neighbourhood coffeeshop for a different reason - the cute barista !

Through my frequent visits, I had realised that she worked only on Saturday afternoons. She must have been some sort of a trainee or a temporary worker, but I could care less. She served as a brilliant inspiration for my writings.The first time we locked eyes, I observed a twinkle in those hazel eyes, supported by a dazzling smile and a cute dimple. The flowing locks and sharp features left me mesmerised.As she walked by my table, I looked up and smiled, which was promptly returned by a brilliant smile and a "hello". I acknowledged the greeting, but didn't utter a word.

I was not surprised to find her working again the next Saturday. As I dangled my empty cup at the edge of the table, she walked over to me and poured some hot java. There are times when words dont seem to come out at appropriate times, for me, it happens most of the times. Tongue tied, I smiled back at her. But she didn't seem to take offense at my inability to thank her. I would sit hours on such afternoons, observing her work away her charm at her over caffeniated customers.

After a couple of Saturdays, I sensed an increasing urge to ask her out for a dinner or atleast a drink. But a diffrence in culture, accent and more importantly language, hindered my ambitions. By now she had come to realise that I was a regular visitor and always greeted me with her warm smile, coffee, and a few pleasant words. I hope she didn't mistake my inability to hold a conversation with her, as an inability to understand english, which in any case would not be a bad assumption given the multi ethnic composition of this city.

On my 5th saturday visit to the shop, my perseverance almost paid off as I hung on till the shop closed and I was the sole customer left. As I was pretending to be busy at my work and secretly admiring her, she walked up to me and asked me, "So how is the story coming along, sir ?". My fumbling for an appropriate reply was interrupted by the shrill siren of the overflowing coffee machine and the accompanying steam plume. As she got admonished by her supervisor, I was escorted out of the shop by the janitor.

After weeks of introspection, I finally mustered up the guts to walk up to her and tell her how enamoured I was by her beauty. But she masked her inability to decode my language, which for most part was a hand-waving gesture, with a smile and a pat on my arm. In most cases you need courage to ask a girl out. In my case, I need a surgeon, if not a miracle to get my voice back!