Coffee Boy

This is a story about what my sister refers to as "poetic justice".

I'll begin with telling you about him. His name is Dustin. He was my first serious boyfriend. I was in love with him, or at least I thought I was; I can never be sure why. I mean, we made some wonderful memories. We danced in the kitchen. We took hikes in the woods. We made each other mix-CDs. We just sat on the couch and cuddled. I just wish I could remember those more instead of the bad memories...

The bad ones would not exclude him having sex with my then-best friend, denying it, then admitting it, and saying it would never happen ever again. Guess what? It did. I was crushed. Crushed. Its the only word that seems fitting. Like being stomped on until you've shattered into a million pieces, like little shards of glass. I can't count how many times he would email me and I would angrily (and sometimes tearfully) send a reply, my mind set to ultra-bitch-death-ray mode.

This was over a year ago. After a while, I just started ignoring his emails and he stopped sending them.

He works at Starbucks now. The one right by my house that I always go to. There's absolutely nothing wrong with working there. I imagine it's an excellent job. And while I feel a sad twinge in my stomach when he hands me my venti caramel frappuccino and seems too scared to even look at me; you have to admit, there is a sort of irony in the fact that the boy who stomped all over my heart now makes my coffee.

Yeah. I really love happy endings.

Where I Get the Lame Humor Gene

Dad dials a number on his phone and puts it to his ear as its ringing.
"Yo!" he says as he makes some indescribable gesture with his hand, "Wazzup, mannn?"
He pauses to look at me as I laugh at his silly gangsta-wannabe attempts. "I probably just signaled some gang, didn't I? They're going to come bust a cap in me."