That barista, Mother, with the dark-roast eyes and the silver nail through her left eyebrow, who pulls the handle of the espresso machine with such imperial ennui — Mom, does she not know that she is killing me? I have heard she is a pagan, though of noble family born, related to the Grossmans of Detroit or the Shaughnesseys of Darien — but she is finer than that tribe, with her dragon-tattooed arms and her skin as smooth and pale as the end page of a vampire novella. She scares me speechless with desire, but I would give a million to see her smile and even more to tell a joke that would make her actually choke in laughter and send the spray of that eight-ounce energy drink uncontrollably bursting from her beautiful nose.