Mo-ka

And about that 20-minute coffee break with the hot editor…We meet in the grand ground floor lobby because we don't want to get caught together in the elevator well on our upper floor. Especially since I'm sneaking out of a big brass balls meeting about three steps away from the otherwise obvious elevator meeting place.

She finds me downstairs and her eyes are doe-like aglow with anticipation and smile. Mine are deer in the headlights.

We have a brief conflict over who will lead through the revolving doors. Etiquette says the woman goes first, so the man can push, push, push it on. She wants me to go first.

It is unusually cold today in NYC. So much so that we both say, Holy Fucking Shit as soon as the wind hits us. How can you not like a woman who says Holy Fucking Shit when her face hits a NYC wind chill?

We walk the 1.5 blocks to the Starbucks and find a huge line of douchebags waiting for coffee. At first it seems to suck, but it’s really a blessing. We get to stand together and touch for a few minutes as we progress to our goal of hot liquid. This is not a metaphor.

We order our drinks and await with mouth-watering anticipation as they are brewed.

We, coincidentally, both request Vanilla Lattes. And, of course, there was a run on warm, gooey vanilla cream before we got there. So we have to alter our orders. She goes with Cinnamon something. I ask if they have chocolate. I’m quickly corrected that the proper word is mocha.

I guess I don’t hear the barista right, because I'm regretting that I have an okra something coming my way.

She’s cracking up during this exchange with the barista. I’m all like, why are they fucking with me? She’s like, just say “Mo-ka.” I say “Mo-ka” and immediately they hit me with the baffling question, “whipped cream?” I’m like, “WTF? Mo-ka.” They’re like, “Yo, dummy do you want whipped cream on your piping hot beverage?”

Mind you, I’m hung over and a fugitive from a serious company meeting.

I look at her and she says with her eyes to tell them yes.

I say bring it on. Whatever it takes to pour some sugar on me.

We leave, our fingertips melting around hot lessons learned, heads leaning into an icy wind.

I lead the way into the revolving doors back home.