“I bet if you were abducted by aliens, they’d skip the probing part,” I whisper harshly into his back.

The man, who decided his coffee order was more important than mine, slowly turns from where he cut right in front of me in line and faces me with raised brows.

“You have the confidence of a much taller man,” I inform him.

He scoffs, narrows his eyes, and accuses. “I bet you were _never_ a pleasure to have in class.”

I gasp scandalously and inch insidiously closer, letting my eyes travel over his all black outfit and dark loafers that make me grin a bit in inspiration.

With a forceful sarcastic frown, I say, “Tying shoes is hard, huh? How recently did you stop wearing ones with Velcro?”

He fully turns to me then, both of our hopes for coffee completely forgotten, along with the patrons’ who stand enraptured in our production.

“Hey, could you smile again? I love the color yellow,” he says.

A woman sitting at a table beside us gasps on my behalf.

I cross my arms and pop a hip, lazily gesturing to the entirety of him with a rolled wrist.

“You know, with an attitude like yours, the only chance you’ll get to be inside a woman is if you’re an organ donor.”

Our crowd is a chorus of impressed “Oooo’s.”

He tsks and tries his hardest to fight the smile that he aims at the ceiling instead, but finally relents with a laugh.

“Alright, you win,” he yields.

I sketch a theatric bow to my clapping fans before we all step ahead in line.

The man shifts to my side.

“You want the Americano again?” he asks.

“Please.”

“Coming right up.”

I press up on my toes and kiss my husband’s cheek. “Thanks, babe.”