Barista

"I was wrong about you," I said.

She looked up from her work, her blonde hair, tight in ringlets falling around her round face. Her gray eyes were the color of storm clouds in the distance. Her brows knitted together as I waited for her response. I felt impatient, checked my watch and tapped my wrist. She just stared, as though forming a thought, a response, a question to my statement. Finally, she smiled and straightened her back. She looked around and laughed uneasy, "Do I know you?"