Her warm green eyes glanced away briefly, blinked, and returned.  He swallowed hard.  The cappuccino had gone cold ages ago, and now he had little left to talk about.  She shuffled her feet, and the ochre Pumas squeaked softly.  "Well, it's been nice…" she said towards the table.
    This date had gone badly, like so many before it.  He had worn the graphic off the center of his Starbucks card, filled and drained countless times across an interminable span of failed dates.  The girls never liked him past the first five minutes.  They were attracted to his pompadour hair, his neat-yet-faded slacks, his messenger bag, but after a few minutes of conversation, they always trailed off and began reading the walls at the coffee shop.  Reading them, yes, actually reading the print next to their variously blond, auburn, tawny, dusky, or flaxen hair.  That was when he knew he'd blown it.  It was always after they talked about where they worked, then they would ask him, and after the words "baby seal" and "club" rolled off his lips, they were gone.

 

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