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this is a short story of sorts i wrote back in college.

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She came there often. There wasn't any need for corny come-ons or pick-up lines, because she was always there.
 
In the first place, everything about her didn't sum up to what she was supposed to be like. She seemed brutish and bitter, much like the coffee she drank on her mug. Never smiling, a figure in dark, a permanent scowl attached on her delicate features.

Her coffee had no cream nor sugar. She never flinched at the first instance her lips would touch the brim, no matter how steaming hot it was, or how vile I imagined it would be.
 
I'm a cream-and-sugar person myself, but then again I'm more open to variation. My tastes vary, depending on my mood.
 
She wasn't like that, unfortunately. Just sticking to a particular brew. The routine-ness of it all, if you can call it that, got my curiosity piqued.
 
I stood behind her in line once. Trying to get as close as possible. Trying to hear a voice to attach to the person, asking for that one and only order. I tried to quickly memorize what she wanted. I do have a selective memory after all.
 
When it was my turn, I got a double espresso. It did not slow my heart one bit.
 
I tried her drink one day while she wasn't there. I put it near my lips the way she did it, without blowing the steam away. Not only did the brew successfully scald my tongue, it tasted so acrid I had to get water to wash the taste out of my mouth. It was something I had to get used to.
 
One day, I arrived to see her sipping a frap. She seemed happier with the change. Before my mind could completely register what was happening, before I could make theories and presumptions, before I could ask why, she was bouncing and beaming on that pair of taller, darker, and stronger arms who could push the entrance door without difficulty or aid from the security guard.
 
I don't think I'll order her drink again.