As I filled empty plastic carmel bottles, I watched a first date between a shy man with awry blonde hair and an overweight woman with a slight smile, a boisterous laugh. The two seemed oddly matched and spent an hour and a half in the store.

She came in around six o'clock and ordered a Venti Green Tea latte. Her conversation with me was short, she looked over her shoulder a few times, and held herself without slouching. It wasn't until twenty minutes later that I realized the purpose behind these mannerisms. This woman, dressed in trendy attire with hair softly blown dry, was preparing for a first date. A blind date! (I served the man as well but cannot remember the interaction we had.) I proceeded to eavesdrop as I spent time with the caramel containers. (My grandmother likes to call this "rubbernecking" - a slight euphemism that doesn't present me as the strange creeper I can be.) And so, I rubbernecked. And I found out that this woman is a very hard worker - in fact, used it (it seemed) as a way to impress her cohort. She went to school during the day, worked at night, only slept once every three days or so.

Perhaps I always heard right when she said she had a child. "It's one of those Southern Baptist things" she told him. His face was red (perhaps anxiety?) as he nodded.

"I have my child to this day." She played with her latte. "Never gave her up to my parents like some people do."

That's honorable - truly.

Anyway. What was my point in this entry? Perhaps to try and capture the delicacy of a first date. Perhaps just so all you readers out there are aware that baristas are very aware of our surroundings.

At any rate, whatever my intent, I have failed again.

I am constantly reminded of the work it takes to be a writer. Who am I kidding that to sit here on my meal break on a Sunday night produces anything worth reading?

Yet -

yet.

I also remind myself that these moments continue to sharpen that which I have found and come to love. This unwarranted talent which I desperately wish to improve.