The Hottie, The Heimlich and Parking Tickets

"So, it happened one morning during the coffee run for my team. I say "my team" when it was more Joyce's team. She was project manager and had over 20 years of experience, as she never failed to mention.

I was the go-between. The voice of reason, the bridge over the River Kwai, between the worker drones and Queen Joyce. Donald or Chani should be doing coffee runs as I have superiority over them. Superiority? I mean, seniority, of course.

But, you know, grease the wheels—make the machine run smoothly.

Plus, the coffee run included a chance to stare uninterrupted into the eyes of the most devilishly handsome barista on the west side. Johnny Café Coppola. We were on first names and "hey, the usual" terms, but I didn't know his surname. It didn't matter. Those brownie-grey pools pulled me in every damn morning. I welcomed the distraction.

Who needs surnames? Not the British Monarchy. Johnny could be my prince any day of the week, apart from every third Sunday, as that was when I "shaved and maintained the young goddess" look I worked so hard on. It's just when I put my lady shaver to good use, paint my nails and listen to The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill at top volume. Only about that thing, that thing, that thing."

"Ahem, Ms. Roberts—can we get back to the events in question"

"Right you are, your grace—I mean your honour"

"So, I was standing in the coffeehouse, the best place to get a decent coffee in my neck of the woods. Waiting in line, checking my reflection on the tiled wall behind the counter. I was looking fine as, if I don't say so myself. But, I do say so.

My hair was in a messy bun, dyed particularly strikingly, and dare I say, foxy auburn brown, and my lash game was fire. That day, I hadn't overdone the makeup—just foundation and toner to hide the lines and unevenness of my natural tan—because your girl is all about representing the natural minimalist look.

You're a man of the world, your most honourable honour. I've digressed, but my diversion helps set the tone for my tale. My mood that day was of a kitty kat who was ready to take on whatever the world threw at her. I just hadn't bet on what happened next."

"Which was?"

"Well, yes. I was giving my order to the mighty fine Johnny Café Coppola with the hot sleeve tat and nose studs. My team, or Queen Joyce's team, I should say, had their usuals. Donald had the flat white with an extra shot of espresso and caramel syrup, Chani was the oat milk café latte and Joyce had a black Earl Grey tea with a dash of lemon.

I was chewing some gum, because I still had nasty bed breath and didn't want anything to get in the way of a tongue sandwich with Johnny Café Coppola if the chance arose. As I was about to give my order, I accidentally swallowed my rather large piece of gum and it got lodged in my damn food chute. So embarrassing."

"And what happened next?"

"Well, I was tripping over my words, more than usual, and Johnny, bless his hipster hairdo and musky cologne, must've realised I was in trouble, because he launched over the counter like a superhero and gripped me from behind. Damn your girl for being so disorientated and fighting for her life, as I couldn't enjoy the intensity and intimacy of having the boy so close, as he was grabbing me around my body and pressing into my body from behind trying to dislodge the stuck gum. Everything got fuzzy like I'd dropped acid and Johnny's voice distorted; I think he even turned into a rabbit for a second."

"Quite the tale, but how does this relate to the charge against you?"

"I'm getting to that, my liege. Liege? What's a Liege?

Noun-a feudal superior or sovereign. Apparently. Aren't phones great?

Anyway, I'm lying in this hazy dreamlike place, fluffy bedding and angelic singing. Then a golden-suited man, and I mean man of a fellow, stoops over me. He looks familiar, like Johnny, if more 'conditioned by the military' or something, and just staring.

It was mostly at my chest, which I'll admit was not unpleasant. However, as I was a little wary about not being in the coffeehouse and my—I mean Joyce's team—worrying about where I'd gotten to, I told him, 'Eyes up here, mister handsome,' and directed him to my face.

The flashy a-hole just winked and pulled me up without much effort. His cologne was similar to Johnny's but a bit more intoxicating."

"ahem, Ms. Roberts—"

"I'm getting to the point, your eminence, keep that robe on."

[Deep sigh] "Your honor."

"That's what I said.

After the strapping young and very manly golden-suited Johnny had pulled me to my feet, he proceeded to find his way behind me and was doing a somewhat different version of the Heimlich maneuver than—well yes.

Needless to say, things got heated. We ended up back on the floor, golden man no longer suited, and more than just my messy bun was loose and on display. I've never felt more alive and heated, from head to toe and everywhere. His voice still whispers in my ears. Then I woke up, still a little disorientated, with Johnny looking down at me, the sound of his golden-suited doppelganger still in my ears, in the coffeehouse."

"That is quite the tale, Ms Roberts, but pray tell what it has to do with your unpaid parking violations on the 12th, 24th and 31st of last month?"

"Oh yes, about that… None of this is related. But in my defense, near-death experiences put financial responsibilities into some kind of perspective. Anyway, your honor, can I pay in installments?"

*

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