I like to visit coffee shops. I bring a book and my credit card, prepared to settle in for an hour at least. Some coffee shops have a creaking floor and equally-as-creaky homey furniture, others are modern marble and sleek wood chairs. One day, maybe I’ll write a blog with all these coffee shops. Today is not that day, as I have no experience or knowledge of blogging. This random summer Tuesday, I’m walking into Malachi Coffee, with wooden floors that do groan, local artwork hung on the walls, and every kind of chair you can envision, for your perusing. Now, I’m not particularly socially adept. Awkwardness follows me like a sad puppy at times, particularly when I’m deciding what to order. The barista looks at me. Or is it baristo- it is a guy after all? “What’s your favorite thing to get?” I’m stalling. I just need another two minutes with the menu but he’s been ready for me to order this whole time sooo- His eyes kind of light up. “Oh I love a good cinnamon latte with sweet foam. We have a good matcha as well.” I’ve never had matcha. Pretty sure it tastes like grass though. However, social anxiety grips me so the words “oh an iced matcha please” pop out. Mentally judging myself. Where’s the cliff. “Any syrups?” He pauses his matcha-making. “Sugar free vanilla please?” When your answer comes out a question instead- “Sure thing. Would you like sweet foam?” That sounds exceptionally good, and I say so. Sometimes I’m braver, and kick social anxiety in the groin now that ordering is done. “What’s your name?” I ask the barista/baristo. “Lenny, and yours?” He pushes his glasses back onto his nose. “Elise. Thank you for the matcha.” I smile before heading to my seat. Point one to Elise, braving society day by day. I open my book and sip. Sweet foam has my heart. Only as I set it down does the milk look in the shape of a heart. Darn that oblivious sip. So I sit in my umber-colored chair, thinking about the possible heart/gift/glorious iced matcha as well as a certain barista- pardon me, I mean baristo.