Beauty.

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Jenn and I took a drive tonight to inaugurate our summer. She wanted a tall, decaf mocha, light on whip, and I wanted to take in the streamers of sunset and fresh air through my open window, one of my favorite ways to reflect and recharge before another Monday.

We glided into the drive-thru lane at the local coffee shop, our Hybrid hushing to stillness as we settled to a stop at the intercom.

“Welcome to Starbucks. How can I help you this beautiful evening?”

The words were simple, scripted, rote. The voice –the voice spun silk through mesh, ran confident, slender fingers through island hair, grazed soft places unseen by strangers or sun.

There was a brief dalliance over whether to ice or not to ice and a total amount was relayed. We pulled forward, both remarking how we were ragheaded, bra-less scrubs and that it figured that this woman, this goddess of the intercom, was probably the most gorgeous, flawless barista in all the world.

We coasted to the window, currency in hand and, in an instant, swallowed our assumption.

We laughed together then and most of the way home.

Jenn said she had pictured a Latina muse, caramel skin with austere, exotic features and long, sable hair.

I shared that I had pictured a cool writer type, creamy-complexioned with tossable auburn curls.

How funny, we thought, that neither of us wound up with our physical ideal and, at face value, had even gone to the opposite.

How funny that, after a lifetime of pining for women I thought to be beautiful, my lobster’s beauty is unsurpassed.

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