I had been coming into Mujo’s café for about two weeks straight, every morning around 8am. Sometime around the two week mark, the gentleman barista who was there everyday asked me my name.

I extended my hand and felt the corners of my lips lift, “Tasha.” I was so excited. The barista and I would be on a first name basis. The next thing I knew, he’d be putting free shots of strawberry syrup in my cappuccinos. He’d name a drink after me, perhaps, and after a few months, perhaps even tell me his life-story. We could talk about other customers behind their backs and exchange knowing looks when they walked in.

“I’m Antun.” We shook hands. We were friends now. “Would you like some strawberry syrup in your cappuccino?”

“Yes!” My eyes lit up, everything was going according to plan.

The little bell on the door jingled, and the largest man I’d ever seen walked through the door. “Michel!” Antun greeted him.

“Antun!” They began to converse in some language that was definitely not English or a member of the Romance language family. I didn’t know what to do but wait for my drink.

They both looked at me for a moment, not in a condescending way, but I had the impression they were discussing something about me. My heart stopped and the room felt a little warmer. The moment didn’t last long, but when they went back to looking at one another, they laughed. I laughed too. It was an awkward moment and I wondered if it would have been less awkward if I had just stood there.

Antun rang me up, interrupting his conversation only to say, “Three fifty-five” to me and then “thank you, Tasha!”

My cappuccino and I retreated up the stairs to the balcony. I sat for a moment at my usual table and caught my breath, slowed down my heart rate, and took a sip of my cappuccino. He forgot the syrup. I glowered at the cappuccino as if it had insulted my mother.

That night, I tossed and turned in bed, too hot or too cold. My quilt got a work out as it was tossed around my bed, kicked off and pulled on, twisted and turned varying degrees. My solution was to turn the heat up to 90 degrees in my room and sleep naked without my quilt. This seemed to work, but I woke up at 5 am anyway.

I had never looked at Mujo’s hours, but they were open every time I got there, as early as 7. Perhaps they were open earlier? I would never have peace of mind until I was sure Antun liked me, until I could walk in like Michel and yell out “Antun!” I would know I could walk into Mujo’s and yell “Antun!” when I was offered that shot of strawberry syrup in my cappuccino and it wasn’t forgotten. Then I would know Antun actually appreciated me, thought we were friends. I would know that if he spoke about me, it would only be in the most flattering light. My face wouldn’t turn red from humiliation, but out of the flattery that was obviously being bestowed upon me, so obvious that it transcended language barriers.

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