get my cappuccino from the coffeeshop around the corner--a clean, white, tiny little place staffed by scruffy thirtysomething hipster dudes. Mostly, they’re nice. There’s this one guy who is especially nice—who says things like, “Heidy-do!” when I come in, and announces that my drink is ready in silly announcer voices. This charms me. The first day he knew my order before I said anything, it felt as though he’d called me the most beautiful girl in the world. It’s all I want sometimes, a barista who knows my drink order.

“This is a special day for me,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked. “Because your wallet and your scarf match?”

This was true! They were both hot pink! I laughed, and he laughed, and thus began a counter flirtation that has now lasted weeks. How heavy is our flirtation? It’s a 4.5-6.3, depending on the weather. When I showed up one morning with a guy (friend!), he scowled at me. When I ran into him at the bodega across the street, he told me I was cheating on him. I don’t even know his name, and I don’t want to know his name. I only want our relationship to exist for two blissful minutes a day, pure and sweet and backed by the hissing sound of steamed foam. But today our mini-love affair hit a snafu. See, I walked in a bit later than usual…and he was flirting with another girl. No “heidy-ho!” No “where have you been all morning?” When he finally looked up and saw me, he blushed, like he’d been caught. And he had been! It was the weirdest thing. I just got my cappuccino and left. We hardly exchanged words.

That’s the last time I go there after noon.