My barista left me. And it still hurts.
It’s been about six weeks now and a new café has opened up a couple of doors away from where David used to be – smiling at me each morning as he reached for my keep-cup and started making my large extra hot latte, with 1/4 sugar, without even checking my order.
The relationship had lasted years.
He was the one I told about what my kids were up to and I was the one he talked to when he wanted advice on how to write his own cookbook.
But then, one day, he was gone.
He told me a few days before the sign went up on his window. His entrepreneurial spirit had paid off and he was finishing up serving coffees to focus on his plant-based milk business that was going gangbusters and, although I was happy for him, I couldn’t help feel a hint of betrayal. Couldn’t he build his business empire and STILL make great coffee for the neighbourhood?
It seems he couldn’t.
So now, I wait in line a few doors down, as the new baristas in town struggle with the crowd of people in the queue…missing David’s speedy service.
Despite my sometimes twice-daily coffee habit, they always ask my name, and my order. I tell myself they’ll remember next time but they never do.
Who knew breaking up with a barista could feel so bad?
As I stood there this morning, waiting, a bad rom com-style montage of of my former barista played in my head. The time I shared some hayfever medication with him to help his summer sneezes. That other time he gave me the number of his acupuncturist to heal my daughter’s dance injury. Him reaching for my keep-cup and nodding and handing me back a creamy, piping hot brew.
Oh, David. I miss you. But I wish you well.
And now I’m just a woman (in a queue), standing in front of a frazzled man (with ten other people), wishing he would remember my name.
Do you value connections to your own local traders? Do you follow them if their business moves suburbs? Tell us your story in the comments.
.
