Starbucks

It's the five minute rush before stats class and my feet run with a mind of their own. Out of habit, I dart into the starbucks across from the lecture hall. Making my way to the front of the line, I'm more worried about the starbucks closing before I reach the front rather than the TopHat attendance taking place in lecture.

And suddenly, before I can think or stop myself, I find myself blurting out your order.

Your stupid, white-girl starbucks order.

How many times had I teased you over the specific details your order required from the milk substitutions to the properly filtered light ice? I'd lost count.

But it didn't matter anymore.

The second the words are out of my mouth I can't take them back.

I want to so badly reverse time and request my regular carmel frappe.

But it's been too long since I've held one of those.

And naturally, I blame you.

I'd never admit it but your drink was always what I'd order because it actually tasted good. I know hearing those words would inflate your ego to no end but damn it feels good to admit to the universe that, despite all the teasing, you and I did have a connection. Maybe it was one that you didn't see or one that was simply a figment of my imagination.

But your stupid drink symbolized everything that I loved and hated about you.

And so now, as I stand at the back of the lecture hall, attention solely on my unsipped drink,

I only think of you.

How did I so quickly fuck this up? I'd only known you for a few weeks, pushing the definition of a month. But somehow I couldn't help but feel like you and I could've been friends.

Hell.

We had been friends.

But my stubborn attitude combined with your caring nature only led to this moment.

The coffee trickles down the sides of the drink and onto my hand. It's the coldness of the coffee and the slight tingling at the edge of my frozen fingers that make me realize that this is all that's left.

Me, the memory of you, and a half-spilled starbucks drink.