Worst Seven Minutes of My Life

I claim I’m normal.

That’s not science. That’s wishful thinking. I test this theory daily and, spoiler alert, the results are not promising.

Being normal looks easy. People just… do it. They wake up, put on pants (on the first try!), leave the house, and somehow avoid overanalyzing their own facial expressions like it’s the SATs for eyebrows.

I would kill for that. Or at least, like, pay a reasonable monthly subscription.

Today, I had hope.

I got dressed in under ten minutes. No staring at my closet like it’s a cryptic escape room. No wardrobe change montage. No moment of existential crisis about whether my “lucky shirt” is actually just cursed.

Shirt? Present.

Jeans? Functional.

Shoes? Same species.

Hair? Exists, allegedly.

Keys, wallet, phone? Found without invoking the dark arts.

I should’ve gotten a medal. Or at least, a sticker.

But the universe is petty. When things go this smoothly, it’s only because it’s saving up for something special. Something with my name on it.

Today, that something was a coffee shop.

The bell over the door barely tries. It goes “jng,” like even it’s not sure I’m worthy. Coffee aroma, people murmuring in fluent Small Talk, everyone looking like they got the memo about “how to be chill in public.”

And then—her.

Of course. Because fate is never subtle—it’s a drama queen. Instead of, say, a minor car accident or a surprise pop quiz, the universe throws me a very pretty woman standing at the counter. Just standing. Looking at a menu. Not a single slow-mo hair toss or spotlight, just—existing, like it’s not an Olympic event.

Meanwhile, my brain:

ALERT: Attractive Human Detected

Activate: Pretend To Be Cool Protocol.

Step 1: Blink like a person.

Step 2: …Okay, not like that. That was a Windows reboot.

She tucks her hair back and my chest does this thing, like I’m prepping for a moon landing.

Don’t stare.

I stare.

Look away, but casual.

I whip my head to the side so fast I almost dislocate a memory.

Nailed it. NOT!

If anyone’s watching (they aren’t, THANK GOD, but if they were), they’d think, “That guy’s totally fine. He definitely doesn’t Google ‘how to be human’ twice a week.”

The line shuffles forward. I shuffle too. Like I’m in a game of “don’t blow your cover as a sentient being.”

Okay, plan. People talk to strangers all the time. Nobody has to enter witness protection.

Compliment? Immediately too much.

Joke? Danger zone.

Casual comment? My mind goes blanker than a password hint.

I study the menu as if I haven’t ordered the same thing for months. Suddenly, “latte” looks like a WiFi password. Do I even drink coffee, or have I been faking it this whole time?

She steps up. One person left between us. My palms are sweating from sheer proximity.

I rehearse:

“Hey, have you tried—no, too barista.”

“Do you know if this place—exists? We’re in it, genius.”

“Hi.”

Wow. Groundbreaking dialogue.

She glances over. Our eyes meet.

She smiles. Not a rom-com, slow-mo, soundtrack-starts smile. Just a tiny, normal, “hello, fellow human,” smile.

Which is somehow worse because now I have to respond. Like a person.

So I nod. Not a cool, subtle nod. No. This is a “I hereby accept the terms and conditions” nod.

Why did I just digitally sign something with my face?

She looks slightly confused. Reasonable.

Then her mouth twitches, like she’s holding in a laugh.

Oh great. She thinks I’m weird. (I mean, correct, but still.)

I can recover. People recover. Probably. Theoretically.

I step forward—smack into a chair leg that’s been there since the Cretaceous period.

I don’t fall. I stumble. Which is the worst of both worlds—neither confident nor tragic, just a flailing mess.

I fix my shirt. Because that’s what people do after a public trip, right? Sure. Let’s say yes.

She’s definitely watching now.

“Bold move,” she says.

SHE. SAID. WORDS.

“I like the commitment,” she adds, grinning. “Really sold it.”

Oh no. She’s funny. Now I have to be funny back.

“I’ve been practicing,” I say, like tripping is part of my CrossFit routine.

Not my best, not my worst. We’re surviving.

“Shows,” she says. “The trip, the recovery, the wardrobe adjustment. I’d clap if it wouldn’t get us kicked out.”

She smiles—an actual, human smile.

Stay calm. Don’t blow it.

“I try to keep it subtle,” I say.

Why am I like this.

She laughs. For real. Something shifts. Suddenly, it’s not a test. It’s… kind of fun?

We inch forward. She orders, smooth as butter, like she’s never blacked out at a Starbucks.

My turn.

Barista: “What can I get you?”

Me: “I’ll have a—”

Brain: [404 Error]

“—coffee.”

Barista: “What kind?”

Me: “Yes.”

Barista: That’s not a kind.

ME: “Uh… just regular?”

Barista: There is no regular.

“Drip coffee?” he suggests.

ME; “YES.” God bless this man.

I step aside. She’s still there. Because, physics.

Say something.

“Are you in line?” I ask, like a time traveler who’s never seen a queue.

She raises an eyebrow. “…I was.”

Right. Duh. I mean—yeah. I just—line. I’m also… in it. Not like with you, just… geographically.

Why would I say that.

She laughs. “Geographically?”

“I panicked.”

“That’s fair,” she says. “I once told someone to ‘have a good personality’ instead of ‘have a good day.’”

“That’s worse,” I say, awed.

“Thank you. It’s my magnum opus of awkwardness.”

Now we’re both grinning. This is… weirdly great?

“My specialty is over committing to small actions,” I say. “Like nodding. Or just… existing, sometimes.”

She grins. “The nod was powerful. I felt very legally bound.”

“I stand by it. Whatever agreement we made, I intend to honor.”

“Good,” she says, “I’d hate to have to sue.”

Her name gets called. She grabs her drink.

“Mary,” she says.

I tell her mine.

We share a look. It’s normal, but also, like, not at all.

“Nice meeting you,” she says.

“You too.”

And then she’s gone. No dramatic exit. Just a girl with coffee, walking out of a shop.

I stand there, processing. That wasn’t a disaster. That was… kind of awesome?

My name gets called. I grab my cup. Take a victory sip.

Pause.

This isn’t my drink.

Oat milk? I don’t drink oat milk. I don’t even like oat milk. Am I oat milk now?

I consider going back. Facing the barista.

Nope.

This is my destiny.

I sip again. It’s not good, but it’s not bad. It’s… fine.

Next time, I’ll be normal. I won’t nod like I’m signing a mortgage. I won’t use “geographically” in a sentence. I won’t forget how coffee works.

Next time…

I’ll get it right.

Probably.

Maybe.

Nope.

But hey—progress.