Fart Girl

Starbucks

It's a week later, coffee time. Since Blue's is now out of the question, I am queuing up in good ol' Starbucks, breathing in the delicious smell of coffee which, by the way, has been forever ruined for me because of him.

"Hey."

Think of the devil.

I roll my eyes and flick the chin now knocking on my shoulder.

"Are you stalking me?"

"Of course," he says, putting a hand on his heart. "You have bewitched me body and soul."

I roll my eyes to which he grins.

"I do seem to have an uncanny ability to detect you through storefronts," he adds,"though I must say it is less by sight than by smell..."

I roll my eyes again.

"The way you're going at it, your eyes are gonna get stuck looking at your skull forever, Smelly Cat." He chuckles, ruffling my hair.

I blink at him.

"How'd you know my name's Cat?"

"Your name's cat?" he frowns. "Like the animal?"

"No, you idiot," I huff out a laugh, "like Catherine."

"Oh."

I laugh again at his adorably befuddled expression.

"So, do you still feel guilty enough to treat me again? I am craving some of that pistachio cheesecake." I am only half joking, those cheesecakes do look mighty delicious.

He scoffs in disbelief.

"What, are you majoring in leeching off of people?"

"Oh, that's rich, coming from the embarrassing-unsuspecting-cute-girls-and-scarring-them-for- life major."

"Cute?" He smirks, looking me up and down.

I ignore him, and instead say:

"What if I told you I had a crush on the barista?"

The blood drains from his face. The smirk is effectively wiped from his lips, which instead hang open.

By the time he speaks again, we are standing at the counter.

"You... what?'

I turn to the barista, a cute redhead, and say "I want a double espresso, and a slice of pistachio cheesecake. It's on him." I add, nudging him forward.

"Uhm, yeah. I'll have a pumpkin spice latte and a double chocolate chip cookie, please."

"Name?" she asks in a bored tone.

"Patrick." He answers with a grin.

"Patrick? Like the star?" I ask, trying not to laugh.

The barista rolls her eyes.

"Don't mind him. He always gives me a different name. Last time's was Edgar."

"So what's your name?" I ask him, suddenly aware that I've met this guy several times, that I talked to him about my period, and still didn't know his name.

He leans in close, a few rogue strands of his chestnut brown hair tickling my cheek, and whispers:

"That's for me to know, and for you to never find out, baby girl."

I roll my eyes at him, pretending to be annoyed while fighting the traitorous blush rising up my neck.

"You corny ass."

Someone calls his name then, or at least what he claims to be his name, and we go to retrieve our drinks.

"Are you gonna bolt right after you get your drink again?"

I raise an eyebrow at him. "I never bolted."

"Fine. You walked. Whatever. The point is you have a tendency to just leave in the middle of a conversation, and that's just rude."

"Awww," I croon. "Did you want to talk to me more?"

"Yes," he deadpans. "If I treat you, I expect you to at least keep me company."

"Money for company, what am I, your sugar baby?"

I could swear I see his cheeks turn the cutest shade of pink.

"You know that's not what I meant."

"Sure."

He shoves my drink into my hands and guides me to a table by the window, already digging into his cookie before his butt hits the seat.

"Has anyone ever told you that you are such a basic bitch?"

He chokes on his cookie, takes a huge gulp of his too hot latte, tears up, coughs again, swipes a napkin from the table to wipe the snot now running down his nose, all in the span of one second. It's fascinating to watch.

"What-" he wheezes, coughs again, "did you say?" he finishes in a rough voice.

I, however, am too busy laughing my ass off to bother repeating my question.

"You-" I barely manage to string two words together, "are such-" another bout of laughter, "a basic-" I am gasping for breath at this point, "bitch!"

He gasps in outrage, the effect belied by the smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Pumpkin spice and your addiction to chocolate? Come on."

"Well, they are good," he grumbles.

I smile at him. "I suppose they are."