Mateusz. Mathias. Matthew. Mat. Sometimes even Matty, if he liked you enough. And, generally, he never did.
He is a royal fuck-up, one that you immediately notice the moment he steps into a room-- that he was bad business. He was a bad luck charm, but thankfully one that never stuck around much. Death and despair followed him in every direction, and sometimes you couldn't help but feel a little bad for the fella.
But what comes with the chaos, comes an incredibly attractive Spanish man, black curly hair and intense dark eyes, edges that could cut through rock, and of course he was as fit as a whistle. Silent and mysterious, people were automatically drawn to him.
Which is a little unfortunate. Considering he is a huge germaphobe and would rather jump off of a cliff than shake your hand. In fact, one time I spotted a little kid bump into him on the sidewalk, and he nearly burst into tears. I wasn't sure why he seemed so upset, though I assumed that it was because he really didn't like physical contact.
And that's another strange thing about him.
But he still came in, every morning at 5:17 A.M. to get his coffee, black with a little bit of creamer, and on hot days he got it with ice. Occasionally he got a scone or a panini, but he never strayed from his tasteless choices.
How I know him so well, simply because I have been working at the same coffee shop for nearly a year, had several small-chats with him and wrote his name on every single coffee he ordered, calling it out no matter how he spelled it each time. The death and despair thing was kind of extra, though I guess that was understandable after finding out about a week later that the little boy had died the same day he bumped into the guy.
Anyways, I'll stop gloating about Mr. Mat and introduce myself. Samantha B. Or Bee, preferably. Not really anything interesting, just an employee at the Seaside Cafe (I know, very original name), who served a guy black coffee and the occasional pastry.
I've got a cat, a cute ex-boyfriend and your basic-white-girl BFF who does everything with me, and works as a lifeguard at the local pool. My family is basic, my apartment is basic, my food choices are poor but I still manage to stay pescatarian despite all the mouth-watering burgers waved at my face. I went to college for Fine Arts but dropped out after realizing the courses had more to do with writing about the Mona Lisa than learning how to paint said Mona Lisa.
But this story isn't really about basic-old-me. In fact, it's supposed to be about the Mr. Mat guy. I'm just the narrator.