There’s nothing that a nice steaming cup of Mocha can’t fix, I thought to myself as I headed towards my favorite coffee shop. There are about a dozen coffee shops to choose from since I live in a college town. I don’t really know why this one is my favorite. Maybe because they have big, comfortable couches and a blazing fireplace. Or maybe it is the relaxing music perfect for studying. Of course the fact that Bendago’s has the best coffee I have ever tasted might play into it. It was definitely too early in the morning. The clock on the dash of my Contour read 8:06 AM. I just got back from the airport where I dropped off my boyfriend, Jack. He was spending spring break with a good friend of his in Arizona. I had to admit I was a little disappointed that we weren’t going to spend spring break together, but on the other hand I understood him wanted to see his friend. His friend moved to Arizona the year before and they have only seen each other once since then. Nevertheless, I missed him already.
I pulled into the parking lot of Bendago’s and parked next to a dark green Jeep Wrangler. It was sort of chilly outside so I wasted no time running into the little coffee shop. I was glad to see that it wasn’t crowded. There were two business men sitting on one of the couches with a bunch of papers spread out on the table in front of them. They seemed deep in concentration. There was also a guy sitting at the end of the counter. Something about him caught my attention. Maybe it was the way he lifted the newspaper he was reading up in front of his face, almost as if he were hiding. I barely caught a glimpse of his face before it became hidden behind the paper. He had a blue baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Blondish-brown hair that might have had a little curl in it peaked out from under his hat. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but I dismissed it thinking that maybe he was in one of my classes or I had seen him around campus or something. I stepped up to the counter and ordered my Mocha. The clerk behind the counter took my money and went to go fix my drink. I found my gaze had returned to that guy. He had lowered his paper enough to where I could see a little more of his face. I studied him trying to think of why he seemed so familiar. Suddenly he lifted his head and our eyes met. A realization hit me and my jaw dropped. I was staring into the eyes of none other than Brian Littrell of the Backstreet Boys.
