Vanilla Latte

        “Hey, wait!” I heard him call out before I had gotten too far, thanks to my lack of athleticism. The boy caught up to me, drink in hand and his charming smile still gracing his features. “Care to have coffee together?” he gestured with the drink in his hand.

        I was stunned into silence. He wanted to have coffee with me? I almost laughed, but something about his smile stopped me. He looked earnest, genuine, almost like a puppy. My resolve wasn’t hard to crush. I didn’t mind cheesy or cliché or unconventional. I only realized now that I was too lonely to care.

        The boy’s face betrayed some nervousness, “So…what do you say?”

        I looked up into anxious hazel eyes and saw enough hope in there for the both of us.

- - - - -

        He was a gentleman. I was always glad that I had been lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. He proved to be the perfect mix of playful and serious for me, although sometimes his excitement was a little overwhelming to me. But it was expected of a puppy, which – evidently – I found myself comparing to him on an almost regular basis.

        Of course, he was a hundred times better than any puppy I knew. When I came home from work particularly tired and upset, he was already waiting with two drinks in his hands. “Hope you like Vanilla Latte,” he joked as I appreciatively curled up against him.

        We spent many afternoons off of work as such, wrapped in the warm comfort of each other’s arms and a steaming Vanilla Latte, hidden away in the cozy little paradise we called home.

        One night in particular, he was really in need of a Vanilla Latte but unfortunately, twenty-four-hour Starbucks locations were unheard of. We had returned home from my parents’ place in the suburbs and he was quite shaken by the experience. My dad had probably made his limits clear with him while I was in the bathroom.

        His anxious hazel eyes found mine in a wordless plea and I knew what he needed. An hour later I emerged from the kitchen carrying two mugs of the first Vanilla Lattes I had ever made.

        He took a sip and he sighed with content.

        “Is it good?” I asked tentatively, “What’s it taste like?”

        He smiled, “It tastes like… us.”

        I was quite surprised to hear this, “Us?”

        He leaned his head on my shoulder, “Sweet… consistent… and… a bit tangy.”

        “Tangy?”

        “Not everything in life is sweet,” he remarked quietly as he drank again.

        I curiously took a sip too but spat it out almost immediately, “Ugh! How can you drink this?! It’s gross! Why didn’t you just say so?” I exclaimed.

        He nuzzled into me, “It’s ‘cause we’re still working on it. Practice makes perfect, right?”

        Not long after that incident, it was into my anxious eyes he was looking with barely containable excitement.

        As he lowered himself to one knee, his hazel eyes spoke ten times as loudly as his lips did. “Nikki, will you marry me?” he asked as he revealed the sparkling promise of banishing loneliness forever in his hands.

        Whatever my father had said to him during our last visit went out the door after they saw the ring. I had a feeling that they had just been bluffing last time. A Vanilla Latte celebration was in order, and that was exactly what we did as soon as we got home.