The Coffee Date

A cup of fresh coffee, lie between me and the future we all hope for. Whether we admit it to our judgmental homies or not. A dope future, full of NFL Sunday's, Saturday morning hikes (blunt in hand) and Friday night Netflix binges. The future where fun and memories can be made within the confines of a corolla, due to the poetry in motion created by the words that connect two people on a not so religious, spiritual level. A level where souls intertwine. Dreams, goals, pasts, and everything in between discussed as the emotional fireworks sound off in the form of smiles, smirks, and slight touches. Lips may come into play as well, probably shouldn’t rule that out. But watch the hands, and the entourage of fingers that accompany ‘em. Don’t go too crazy, now!

That fresh cup of coffee, curtesy of me, gifted to the beautiful woman stationed in the seat across from me. Crazy blue eyes, i fell in deep on sight. Luscious brown hair to compliment them, too, perfect messy bun. Messy bun’s are really an art. The fit, though… Man, girl’s with style hit me on another wavelength. Aviator glasses, clear, faintly scratched (added to the aesthetic); Stonewashed, distressed mom jeans, pinrolled; Black custom long sleeve shirt that she had made (cool points: +100), with white thin stripes down the side, tucked in; Designer belt, never seen it before, but it was dope for sure; and a pair Gucci shoes, white. Yes, fresh. She’s off to a good start, not impressed, but definitely pleased.

We had met 48 hrs ago, Wednesday, briefly at a game night, my friends were holding. She was on her way out, i was on my way in. In complete comfort, i was rocking Adidas slides with no socks, a hoodie and sweats.Yeah, I know, only real niggas rock the slides no socks. She was cute, so i embarked in conversation, we exchanged snaps and setup a coffee date later that night for Friday morning.

Graphic designer, with a sexy voice, who happened love friends, too. I mean, she got a caramel macchiato, so that wasn’t that surprising. I was hoping by her outfit that she’d be a lil more of an aesthetic, than a damn, macchiato, but what can i say? Expectations kill relationships. Friends, and caramel macchiato’s, are usually the two defining factors of a white girl. So, it definitely adds ups, her skin was along the lines of Caucasian. And yes, if those are the two things that define you, beneath your epidermis is actually a lining of white skin, you not foolin’ nobody. You just another catfish.

Oh, she was cool though, so damn cool. We had a mutual standing when it came to cucumber Gatorade, too. We decided anyone who willingly and knowingly, premeditated a trip to the local 7–11 for a cucumber Gatorade was no one to be trusted. I mean, really, take a moment and meditate on whether or not you can truly trust someone who drinks cucumber Gatorade for anything other than survival. Even then it’s a little iffy, cause like, I’m boiling river water before I’m drinking that. Got me fucked up. Back to the beautiful, Caucasian across from me. She was marking a lot of the boxes, we’d been talking for two hours and to tell the truth, I meet so many cool girls, a lot are dope, but not a lot are worth my time. She was definitely making a strong case on whether or not she’d make the cast for this season. There was definitely potential, a nice bowl of chemistry for sure, and then it happened.

The unimaginable.

And when i say ‘unimaginable’ i mean, like for real, this shit is gonna throw you for a god damn loop.

On a whim, Carey cut the rope of attraction almost instantly and subconsciously watched as the ship for hope of a relationship sailed off. It was weird, no one does that and stays confident.

Game over.

Poetic, seeing as we had met at a game night, two nights before. By the look in her eyes, she knew her road was coming to an end. And this time it wasn’t due to the continuous cycle of construction that Denton goes through. She was ill and both parties acknowledged it. We had a subconscious handshake going, We were on mutual accord.

I’d never seen anything like it firsthand before, an illness like this is something serious. The confidence she brought forth, just to utter such a thing. She needed help, for sure, but so did 15% of the worlds recorded population. Can’t believe she thought it was socially acceptable to say aloud. How beautiful my feet were? How she wanted to lick my toes?! That ‘they’, they being my feet were the single MOST attractive quality about me?! I mean, c’mon! My fucking, feet. What the fuck, hun. Not the usual direction you wanna go in at 10 AM. It’s too early for this shit. I feel like two months in is a little soon to confess that you have a foot fetish, let alone the first date. But, then again, I guess it’s good to let your partner know, wiggling his toes is gonna turn you on faster than a tank-top would.

I assume she was sexually frustrated at the time, seeing as not many men react well to a woman spilling the beans on how, not their masculinity, but their feet were the most attractive quality they possessed. What a world. 21st century advances are crazy, right?! First date in 2019 and I’m seeing the progress already. That’ll be the last time, I let anyone from Denton Ryan set me up with a girl. Don’t get me wrong she was cool, funny even, but she was completely serious about my feet and i don’t know about you, but i don’t think i’d be the guy for her. I’m not really an avid fan of open toed shoes, so i wouldn’t be pleasing her sexually visual needs. Not a willing partner of a foot fetish.

Never dealt with a foot fetish when Obama was president, just throwing that out there.

Once the combination of words escaped the captivity of her vocal cords and were deciphered by my ears, she knew she had fucked up. The look in my eyes, facial expression and body language, communicated clearly how i felt about her statement. Take that L sweetheart, you lose. Outta respect for the internal self deprecating dialogue that was most likely going on within her head, i decided to stay seated in front of her. No trading seating partners at this time. We weren’t playing musical chairs anyway. Game night was Wednesday, after all.

We ended the interaction with a make-out session in my backseat, nothing special, just a goodbye for time rendered. A brilliant kisser, she was fun. Not to mention, the residue of caramel macchiato made for an interesting kiss. Maybe it was my imagination, but i’m sure i had to pull her hands away from my feet a couple times. RIP to Carey, a beautiful speck in my existence. Cheers.

In my closing remarks, I just want everyone to pray that, Miss Carey finds the pair of feet, gang of toes hot n ready to be fondled. Well, maybe not so hot, unless she likes the sweat, adds a masculine tone, i guess.

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