My barista

StarbucksHusband and I made a quick day trip to Washington DC on Sunday. We needed to pick up some supplies from Ikea for our kitchen renovation before Dad comes at the end of the month. Every time we go on a road trip (no matter how short), we always stop for Starbucks. We don’t treat ourselves to this when we’re in town, because we simply don’t have the money. But when we’re on the road? We splurge.

The problem is that I never know quite what to order. Oh, I know I want a chai latte. But I don’t know how many pumps or what kind of milk or any of that. And every time I hesitate when ordering, I feel this pang of grief. Every time.

You see, Michael was a Starbucks barista, a good one. Husband and I would stop in his Starbucks every chance we got to say hi and get a quick drink. The first time I ordered chai, he took a moment to think and said, you won’t want it full strength. He came up with exactly the right combination for my tastes. I never asked him what it was, he just remembered and gave it to me every time.

Now he’s gone. And I don’t know how I like my Starbucks. And it kind of hurts a little every time.

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