As the saying "Art imitates life" goes, this piece was written in the setting of the title. Being utterly captivated by a fellow patron of the Starbucks, I was motivated to write this.
White chucks
with white laces
red trim
penny rolled cuffs
of medium blue
skinny jeans
the most petite, thinnest
legs, leading to
the most petite thighs
a red shirt
not like faded red
but the red of fire
the red of the setting
sun after a long day
with black trim
not thin, but thick
lining every hole
covered by jean
maybe two shades lighter
but not acid washed
with green buttons
but not like grass
like green that has
the ability to envelope
and hold and deep enough
to fall head first into
a small amount of scruff
only enough to know
that they are
post-pubescent
the purest eyes
the deepest brown
you’ll ever feel
exuding both
light and warmth
just by a flutter
of the most perfect
eyelashes
and while the undercut
is so common the curls
that exist en masse
sit like wisps of brown heaven
this human is Aphrodite
this person is a stranger.