Occasionally, I’ll stop by Starbucks in the morning for a slice of banana nut bread and a hot chai latte. My driver-side window won’t roll down, so it’s embarrassing to use the drive thru and open my car door to get the goods. I usually just walk inside. Today, the barista was oddly happy. Gleeful. As she took my order, she turned to her equally joyous coworker and said, “I just can’t stop smiling.” As she was fixing my chai, I overheard her conversation. From the bit and pieces I gathered, apparently, she is in madly love with some guy and the guy has reciprocated. She handed me the chai and wished me a very, very good day.
As I walked back to the car, I took a sip and then gagged. It tasted like someone poured a bag of sugar down my throat, mixed with pure corn syrup. To get an idea of how excessively sweet this chai was, remember that I drink Coca-Cola as if it were a religion. Me, the one who drinks Coca-Cola, found the chai to be too sweet. What could she have possibly put in that drink?
Her happiness tainted my morning tea.
I took a few more test sips to make sure my initial findings were correct. Yes, the chai was horrible. I didn’t have the heart to throw it away at Starbucks. I drove to school and disposed of it. I went to a vending machine and bought a coke. Wonderful reliable Coca-Cola, made in a factory by joyless workers.
I give her relationship three months, then it will be safe to return.