Spells

This past week has been insane, thanks to work. I've been waking up at 6am and doing 10-hour days at the Wee Cafe, Monday to Friday. Thanks to the coffee shop across the road closing down, we've been taking on all of their displaced customers as well as our own, and it has been absolutely hectic. On the plus side, this kind of fast-paced madness often breeds good connections and stories.

Thanks to the extra level of stress that this surge of people in our small cafe has brought, this week saw a lot of things being dropped, smashed and split. By everyone. I have tipped over milk jugs, broken glass, and had doors slammed in my face. By Thursday, I was manically/tragically laughing into a puddle of Diet Coke as I mopped it up, when my Bulgarian co-worker suggested a remedy to my bad luck.

"Tonight, get a piece of red cord and have your mother tie it around your wrist three times."

I asked her what for.

"Just do it, trust me. And it has to be your mother."

6am the next morning, I was rooting around my sister's sewing box for some crimson thread. I stood by my mother's bedside as she sleepily tried to squint through the darkness to tie the string around my wrist three times. Coming into work, I showed my friend. She nodded approvingly, and then explained:

"The bad luck you've been having comes from people talking about you with jealousy, like: 'Oh, she is so pretty,' stuff like that. In Bulgaria we have the Orthodox church but still have a lot of Pagan tradition, and this is one of them. Lots of people wear this around their wrists for protection."

"So what happens when I cut it off?" I asked her.

"Don't cut it off."

"What if it falls off?"

"That will be a very bad day."

I didn't ask any more questions.

Going about my day at the cafe, I started to realise that nothing had been dropped. Nothing had been spilled. In fact, this wasn't even an average day anymore, it was turning into a really good day. My old Dutch co-worker who I adored came back for a visit. My supervisor bought me a bottle of wine for all my hard work. Oh, and Skinny Caramel Latte came in.

The saga of Skinny Caramel Latte (which is a nickname for the guy who orders this, quite frankly, embarrassing drink every morning) began about a week ago. I had been working quite a lot of evening shifts, but I also came to recognise our early morning customers. One Saturday I was scanning the back of the cafe for any tables to be cleared, and my eyes locked on to a dark brown pair that were looking right back at me. This was one of the morning guys who came in super early to get his coffee before work. He had been looking at me. Over the next half hour I would make my way round the cafe, every so often finding my gaze accidentally latching on to his. He was kinda cute, I guess: dark hair that crested over his head like a lazy surfer's wave, round spectacles and a scruff of a beard. I took note of him.

The Monday following was the beginning of my hell week: five early mornings in a row during the busiest spell we'd ever had. It started off quietly: two of the locals were sitting with their coffees in the window seats, chatting away across the space of the empty cafe as my supervisor and I finished off set-up. Then in comes this guy from the weekend. As soon as he sees me, his face cracks into an unintentional smile and his eyes cast down for a second. I beam back at this unwitting display of delight. He orders his coffee, and I wish him a good day.

Wednesday: I'm in early, in comes Skinny Caramel Latte again, now smiles on both our faces. As he's standing and waiting, I decide to ask him: Busy day ahead? He turns his head and asks me to repeat the question, and I do. And now we're... having a conversation? He tells me he works in oil. I ask him who he works for. It goes on until he gets his coffee, and even after that he's still standing asking me questions for a minute before heading out. After that, the two men who sat in the windows scoffed and asked if I was playing a game of twenty questions: "I didn't realise all the customers were treated like that!" one laughed.

"You were flapping about him," my supervisor grinned knowingly. I admitted it: he was cute.

My supervisor laughed at my puppy-dog eyes over the rest of the week, as Skinny Caramel came in on Thursday and we had another blushing conversation: him leaning against the counter and asking how I was in his low Scottish tone, me batting my eyelashes and playing with my necklace as I responded.

The Friday was a holiday, and that morning, he didn't come in. I was a bit downhearted as I had rehearsed the words I was going to say to him (as I often did). Never mind, the day went by with lots of laughs and interest otherwise. Then, as I was sweeping up behind the counter at 4 o'clock, I heard my supervisor chuckle, "Oh, here we go, Olivia," and I looked up. Skinny Caramel Latte had just walked in, taking me completely by surprise. I dropped my broom. He cast me a smile and I beamed back, feeling a bolt of terror and delight strike through me. I knew that I liked this guy, but Jesus, today I was just about floored by it. He strolled up to the counter and asked how I was. My hands were shaking uncontrollably as I tried to put his card into the machine and almost mischarged him fifty pounds for a cup of coffee. Please don't look at my hands, I pleaded internally. I was trying to raise my eyelashes so I could meet his gaze, but my eyeballs were currently engaged in a reprise of Les Miserables' LOOK DOWN, LOOK DOWN, DON'T LOOK HIM IN THE EYE, while my embarrassed heart was asking, HOW LONG, OH LORD, BEFORE YOU LET ME DIE!?!????!?? 

"How are you?" he asked.

I raised my hands to start adjusting my pretty-much-unadjustable hairdo as I replied: "Good, but tired! This week has been crazy." I told him that I was in need of a stiff drink at the end of it.

"Yeah, I know the feeling."

This, might I add, was the PERFECT IN for him to ask me out for said stiff drink, but he didn't. Probably because I was staring at the countertop with a burning intensity.

As much as I adore fancying guys and "flapping" (because, boy, if there was a more accurate word to describe how I flirt so ungracefully, please let me know), it's only quite rarely that I ever get so completely incapacitated. Does the same happen to you? I can only remember a couple of guys who rendered me just as trembling and useless with attraction.

When I was in high school, there was my first super-teenage-crush, which was an all-consuming thing (and it literally felt like I was being gnashed between teeth, the whole affair was so heart-wrenching). I vividly remember sitting in a park beside him, and he leaned in to kiss me but I turned my head away: not because I didn't want to kiss him, but because I LITERALLY THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO PASS OUT AND DIE, I was so attracted to him.

In university I worked on a little project for a couple of days with a dude who made my stomach knot itself over and over. Sitting by him in his apartment, I started to worry that I was literally going to throw up. I was genuinely thinking about telling him I had to leave because I felt so ill.

Huh! And apparently I've got anxiety problems! No idea where that comes from.

Honestly, I am absolutely hopeless. I get the shaky hands, the dry throat, the inability to eat or function properly, the tight stomach and the oh-my-god-I'm-gonna-puke with this Skinny Caramel Guy. Good thing I only have a month to suffer in front of him before I'm off to Canada.

ANY ADVICE/HELP TO ASK THIS GUY OUT WITHOUT SPEWING EVERYWHERE WOULD BE MUCH APPRECIATED.

p.s. I am writing to you today from a lovely fancy hotel!!! yay. Enjoy your Easter weekends xx

p.p.s. the top two pictures are taken from a music video I made to go along with my newest song, The Baby Bump! You can watch me prance around Edinburgh, below: