Sonia Fisher Card Number: **** **** **** 6473 She was American. Her hair was golden and long, cut straight above her shoulders with bangs that landed right above her eyebrows. I was wiping the counter when she approached it. I wish now that I had been attentive to every second I had with her. I asked her what she would like and I must’ve frozen the moment I laid eyes on her because I don’t remember hearing her order. Her eyes were green and the moment I saw them, I was hypnotized. I spent so much time looking at them I am sure they are perfect, like God himself took his time to hand paint her irises. Her skin was smooth with a glowing tan. The sunset behind her made it nearly impossible to look away or to fumble together a string of words and her freckles were the stars peeking out at dusk. She smiled and I knew that I had fucked up. I mumbled a pathetic apology and I asked again what she would like. Her voice was smooth and calming. “A latte and a croissant,” she said. I stumbled around trying to fill her order. I had never really paid attention to the measurements of a latte. Too much milk, not enough coffee, messy mug, excessive cream. I struggled to think of something to say to her. She handed me her credit card: Sonia. Her name is beautiful, so I told her. She said thank you and asked me mine. Suddenly I forgot my name. Greta Rossi, Barista Greta, she said. As she handed me my latte, I told her that was an incredibly beautiful name. Her accent was gorgeous but I turned without saying a word.
Still Waters Vol. IV, Issue IV
2
The Barista by Racquel Baldeo
