The barista and I had been casually flirting for months until, one morning this week, he gives me a free vanilla bean scone — “because that extra one was ruining my display.”
He compliments my bag. I compliment his glasses. He says he’s exhausted because he had been out so late the night before. I ask where he had gone.
“Grand Central” — a gay bar in town. “I think I’ve seen you there before.”
“Yeah, I go there sometimes.”
Well, that’s settled. He talks about how he’s so excited to be moving to New York in two months and finally getting out of Baltimore. I ask how long he’s been here.
“My whole life,” he says. “All 18 years.”
