Café de l’Amour
By J.M. Snyder
From the moment he walks up to the counter and turns those pale blue eyes my way, I know I’m lost. He wears a meticulous suit, crisp and freshly pressed, cut to accentuate his narrow waist and the swell of his butt. When he smiles shyly at me, I grin foolishly back. Suddenly I’m all too aware of the dingy white apron I wear, the ground coffee under my nails, the new, too short haircut exposing my ears. I smooth my hand across the shorn top of my head, then wipe both hands on my apron. “Good morning,” I say, stepping to the counter.
“Good morning, Austin.” His voice is deeper than I expect.
A grin threatens to split my face. “How do you know my name?” I want to hear him say it again.
He points at my chest, where the nametag I wear proudly proclaims I’m A
