The morning queue at Brews was a religion. Every disciple had their mantra — extra shot, no foam, half oat, half almond, something unholy with caramel. She stood behind him, silently judging his confidence. Crisp suit. Expensive watch. That faint scent of Canary Wharf arrogance. She looked at the nape of his neck and wondered what it would be like to kiss it....last thing at night and first thing in the morning when she woke next to him on ruffled Egyptian cotton, stockings on the floor with the sort of memories grown ups cherished.
He ordered with the efficiency of a CEO and the casualness of a poet, “the usual, no lid.” Who drinks without a lid? Probably someone who thinks of consequences. Was he eco? Was he committed? Did he like Greta Thunberg? So ordered, yet rebellious. So eager, yet deliberate.
Another barista was repeating, "Miss, Miss, what can I get you?" She was still captivated by the nape of his well groomed, lightly tanned neck as she shook lewd thoughts and blamed them on her monthly biorhythms.
“Oat-milk flat white, medium cup, cinnamon dust.” She tried not to sound like a dork, but of course, she was a dork. He turned, smirked — that lazy, dangerous smirk that says I know you noticed me, I felt your glare on my neck. And yes, I am the hottest man you ever saw.
Moments later, chaos! A horror movie unfolded. The barista shouted “Oat flat!” as they both reached for the same cup. It went flying, a cinematic collision, a somersault of kinetic energy — steam, slip, splash. She looked at the damage, it was dire, irreparable, tragic. His pristine white shirt, now a Jackson Pollock in beige and various colours of baby poop.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” she gasped, pathetically dabbing him with napkins wondering if her sweaty moustache was showing through her foundation.
“Depends how you define sorry,” he said. “You might’ve just given me a reason to skip a meeting.”
She stared....“You’re not angry?”
He looked down at the mess, then back at her. “I’ve had worse mornings. None as interesting. Having a beautiful woman throw coffee over me is, believe it or not, a first.”
He picked up her latte and handed it to her. “Cinnamon? Smells good"
"Oh have it, please, I insist, I will get another," she said, feeling slightly more composed.
The barista offered a replacement. “I’ll take another, with cinnamon — same as hers,” he said.
She was still looking at the nape of his neck.
"Fancy sharing a pastry? He turned and asked, "I missed breakfast."
“You’ve already ruined my shirt; might as well ruin my diet.”
“Yes, yes, please, thank you....diets are for quitters." she said, gleefully then grimacing at her own non-funny-joke
He chose an almond croissant with a flirtatious nut topping. Everything was feeling slightly.....electric.
The croissant sat seductively between them on a table begging to be devoured. At least it was not his neck, making her mouth water, she thought, trying to act as if she met incredibly hot men everyday over pre-work coffee.
"Shall I?" He asked pointing towards the plate. She nodded trying not to breath heavily, as he ripped the defenceless croissant in half.
Then his phone buzzed. “Meeting cancelled,” he murmured. “Guess I will have time to change my shirt after all.” The thought of him topless was almost too much to bear. She tried to breath steadily like her therapist had explained for panic attacks.
He sensed her thoughts. "If I knew you better you could come ...."
She looked dismayed ...... "to help me choose a new shirt," he continued
"That would be fun, if only I didn't have work."
He smiled, giving away his own desires and he wrote his number on a serviette. His name was Julian, and this was just a beginning.
© 2025 Sarnia de la Mare
💋 Mills & Swoon: Flash Fiction Love is a new romantic short story series from Tale Teller Club Press, where modern love meets classic charm.
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