Diary Of A Coffee Addict

It is a crime not to like coffee when you’re a millennial woman from Melbourne. This is the Coffee Capital of the World, after all.

We were raised on five-bucks-a-pop lattes and smashed avocado and we forgot about owning our own homes a long time ago.

But I’m not addicted to coffee in the same way other millennial Melbournites are addicted to coffee.

Don’t get me wrong. I like coffee. I like the way that bean juice choruses through my veins and ignites my brain. I like the way the rich, dark aroma fills my nostrils and plants an involuntary smile on my dial. Heck, I think I even like the way it permeates my body and revs me up with obnoxious and uncontrollable anxiety.

I like all of that.

But do you want to know what keeps me coming back to my favourite cafe again and again?

The barista.

His dark features strike a bolt of lightning inside my chest and the blue-green hue of his eyes carry emotional currents that suck me in like waves of the ocean.

Every time I order an almond cappuccino (not that I need to say it out loud, he knows) those warm currents drag me out so far out to sea, I can hardly swim back to shore.

Never before has ordering a cup o’ joe ever set my heart racing and my lower abdomen aflutter.

I can’t get enough of the way his five o’clock shadow dances along his sharp jawline and his fluffy black eyebrows hang like a roof over his bright, gentle eyes.

And so, every day, my “coffee addiction” takes control of my body and walks my feet to that sweet little blue and white cafe around the corner, owned by him and his two sisters.

I tell myself it’s the quarantine walk. I need to get outside my house and have some actual human interaction. Except we no longer suffer the pandemic restrictions in this part of Australia, so that excuse is redundant.

I tell myself my words won’t flow unless I fuel my brain with bean-induced energy. Except I can get a eight dollar jar of instant coffee that lasts months, so that excuse is redundant too.

The real reason I visit Soft Cafe is not because I’m addicted to the coffee. Oh no, it’s because I’m addicted to the soft features of the barista and the taste of his warm smile.

So yeah, I like coffee. And I like the cafe around the corner. It’s just that I like the barista who serves me the coffee even more.

Everytime I visit with my friends, they tell me I should just go for it—ask him out.

But my fear keeps me stuck.

But he followed you on Instagram, they say.

But he spells your name right—A I M E E—even though you’ve never spelt it out for him—on that crisp, brown paper bag when you order a croissant, they say.

But everytime you order, he goes out of his way to come out from behind the counter to deliver it straight into your palms, they say.

Perhaps they are right. Perhaps he lives for our daily meetings as much as I do.

Perhaps he wants to know as much about my life as I do his.

Perhaps his heart flutters with a wave of butterflies begging to break free from his rib cage just like mine does.

Instead, I tell myself I’m a coffee addict just getting her fix. I tell myself I’m supporting a the best local cafe in town because I’m a good human.

He’ll say, “What’s going on, legend?” in his smooth Australian twang like he always does.

And as I walk away, as I always do, I’ll say, “Thanks for the coffee, legend, have a great day.”

Because I don’t have the guts to say anything more.

Maybe I need to start ordering black coffee, so the stark bitterness can shock me from my puppy love crush and slam me back into reality?

This cafe fills my heart and shatters it all at the same time.

Every day, I visit just so I can calm my craving for the fragrant coffee AND the sweet barista.

And maybe, one day, I’ll visit Soft Cafe, and instead of saying “The usual,” I’ll say, “Wanna get a drink sometime?”

One day.

Until that day, though, I’ll convince myself that this is my favourite cafe in the world because their coffee is smooth and gentle and that I am a just millennial Melbournite, who needs a coffee fix every damn day of her life if she wants any semblance of creativity to run through her veins.

And I’ll keep coming back to my favourite cafe again and again because the coffee is good... but in the back of my mind I’ll know it’s because the barista is better.