The barista had bright blonde hair—the kind that is more white than yellow—and blue eyes that resembled shiny blue marbles. Intentionally smudged black eyeliner surrounded the periphery of her eyes.

She smiled at me, though only with her mouth. Her eyes, though stunning, simply looked at me blankly.

Nearby, a man, who was probably twenty years her senior, was staring at her. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, impatiently trying to capture her attention. He opened his mouth and said, “So like I was saying—”

“What would you like?” she asked me, ignoring him. She had blinked sharply when he spoke, as if she was flinching. She kept her blue eyes on my face.

“A tall chai, please,” I responded, also ignoring the man.

She told me the price and I fished out some bills for her. She smiled at me again (and still, only with her mouth) as I gently plunked the change into the mostly empty tip jar.

“So like I was saying—” the man said again.

The barista turned her head and looked at him. She looked nervous, but she was smiling. “Yes?” she prompted.

“Wow—look at those eyes,” the man breathed. His voice had softened. He stopped moving and put his hands into his pockets.

Her limpid blue eyes steadily looked at his face.

“Did I just hear a refrain of violins?” he finally asked, a hint of playfulness in his voice.

“Wha…?” the barista said, feigning innocence. The tone of her voice betrayed her discomfort; she wasn’t reciprocating his advances.

As I walked to the other end of the coffee bar, I smirked to myself. Oy… a refrain of violins?

Earlier that morning, a particular someone had directed a pick-up line at me: “If I were a derivative, I would lie tangent to your curves.”

That one made me laugh out loud.