The Inner Slut

I've been craving for a tall mug of real coffee lately. Starbucks just isn't coffee enough for me anymore. I should have gone to Figaro's.

Yesterday, I went to the mall to get a new battery for my fone. When I got there, the shops were still closed, except for Starbucks. So I went in and got myself a grande of coffee, sat at a table and waited. I soon got down to my usual habit of reviewing shoes and people. Pretty interesting, that. You can tell a lot about a person from his or her shoes. And feet, ankles, toes. I don't have a fetish for feet but I do like to study people from down, up.

I sat there, waiting, smiling knowingly that I've often met men at this particular coffee shop in the not-so-distant past.

This was where I met Renaud, Mara's French guy. I wondered if he were still in the country. That was also where I met this other French guy who offered me money just because it was Chinese New Year. And Steve! Sweet Steven, although nothing came of it. I gave him to Marge. Jake, too, I met at this Starbucks. There was also LongJohn, a Brit, who wasn't exactly long.

I met my Dale at another Starbucks. Along with several others, of course. Considering my long and steady alliance with coffee shops, I should put up my own. I think I'll call it The Java Jive and sell condoms alongside breadsticks. Wicked.