Latte -- Espresso, steamed milk, and foam, not sweetened in any way unless the customer asks for syrup or sugar in it.

“God, this guy was perfect.”

Cappuccino -- Like a latte, only much more foam; normally half milk half foam, unless "wet" or "dry" is specified. Also not sweetened, except on request.

“I mean, he was everything the romance novels always talk about. Tall, dark, handsome, sensitive, funny...”

Americano -- Espresso diluted with hot water until it's roughly the strength of regular coffee.

“...and he had an ass you could bounce a quarter on.”

Assorted giggling, rattling the table. For half a second he considered switching, but no, best not to alienate all his coworkers right before his first day. Instead, he moved his notebook to his knees, stooping over it and continuing to write, mouthing the words softly to imprint them even more firmly into his mind.

Mocha -- Espresso and steamed milk mixed with chocolate and served with whipped cream on top.

“So,” another girl was talking now, talking and clicking her nails on the smooth polished tabletop. “If this guy was so perfect, how come you two aren’t living in a split-level in Connecticut with a bunch of kids and a Labradoodle?”

White Mocha -- Espresso and steamed milk mixed with white chocolate syrup and served with whipped cream.

“Because.” Insert heavy, heavy sigh. “He was The One Who Got Away.”

She even said it like that, like every word was capitalized. The phrase got a series of heavy sighs, commiserating sounds, because everyone had been there -- and everyone was willing to share the details of their own long-since-Gotten-Away Ones.

Everyone except for one person.

Chai Latte -- Sweetened Chai syrup added to--

“What about you, new kid?”

It was the by-now-familiar term (“kid”, was he still a kid, at 24? He’d shed the baby-faced German milkmaid look in Sophomore year and, save for a dark and dismal post-graduation period wherein he ate his weight in chocolate cheesecake, he’d kept it off) that made him finally look up. They were all sitting in a cluster, a bouquet of green aprons and eager, curious faces.

It was tempting to slip into bitchface mode, to become icy and remote and disdainful and manage to make the other employees feel three inches small. But that wasn’t him anymore.

So he offered a politely confused smile, absently tapping his pencil on the scribbled coffee-related notes. “What about me?”

“Who was your “one”? The One Who Got Away?”

He kept smiling. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away for a moment, across the coffee shop, at the display of travel mugs and themed spoons, then out the window. Counted passers-by, examined the loose tile in the floor, frowned at a smudge on the glass. Didn’t think about it, about there, about him.

Shrugging, turning back, continuing to write. “Probably my first boyfriend in college. He was a musician, played the cello.” And his name either started with a C or an S and he smelled like Pinesol and kissed like a goldfish. And that was all that had been memorable about him, aside from his position as Second Official Boyfriend Ever.

The other’s “awww”ed, part sympathy, part disappointment and turned back to their gossip. And Kurt Hummel kept taking notes on proper Starbucks coffee assembly and firmly didn’t think about Blaine Anderson.

Caramel Apple Cider --- Steamed cider with cinnamon syrup, whipped cream, and caramel sauce.

---------------------------------------------------------

[March 21st, 2017, 8:53 PM]

“You work too hard, sweetie.”

Lipstick was a fiendish and grotesque invention. It seemed to stick everywhere except on a woman’s lips. He found it on coffee mugs, wine glasses, shirt collars and, just now, on his cheek. It was oily and felt heavy against his unshaved cheek, but he didn’t follow his instinct and wipe it off. That would’ve been rude.

Plus there were ten bright-red nails resting on his shoulders and he didn’t fancy being stabbed by them.

So he smiled, indulgently, and leaning forward to move another stack of files forward, effectively escaping from the blood-red talons. “I’m all right.”

She frowned, coming around to kneel down next to his chair, giving him a beseeching look -- one of her best and most practiced looks. She’d no doubt honed it first on Daddy, for ponies and parties, then on a series of rich and richer boyfriends, for diamonds and Dior.

Ah, but that wasn’t fair. She was more like him than he was willing to admit, just as trapped, just as optionless. And at least there was genuine affection and gentleness in her touch and her smile. That was an improvement on the last three or four girls.

“You’re twenty-three--” she began, resting her hand on his knee.

“Only for another month,” he interrupted, leaning back in his chair and relocating the files to his lap, in a successful attempt to get her hand off.

She rolled her eyes, sitting back and reaching up to feel at her golden hair, pulled back into a messy-on-purpose chignon. “You’re young. You have your whole life ahead of you. You need to go out and have fun while you still can.”

He smiled a little, flicking through a file. “Because I’m dying as we speak. I can feel my hair turning gray, my face becoming wrinkly and saggy, like a geriatric prune...”

She scoffed, giving an odd little toss of her head that, from his limited experience with women, he’s pretty sure is a residual instinct from years of tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Look, all I mean is that you’re going to be stuck in this office, working for your dad soon enough.”

It’s funny, really, how she says that like he isn’t already aware of it.

She hopped up, smoothing her black skirt -- Michael Kors, he thinks before he can stop himself, identifying the clean lines and practical style the way a criminal profiler identifies mugshots -- and grabbing at his hand. “Come to the club with me. Come dancing. Live a little.”

He waved her off, gently, always gentle, always patient and kind and detached, just the way his father treats his mother, like a lovely, polite guest in his bedroom. “You go ahead, I’ll meet you there.”

She’s heard the line before, but it’s nearing nine and her friends are making her phone buzz wildly in the pocket of her Commemorative 105th Anniversary Edition Chanel purse. He stood, offering her the bag and a tired smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Go on.”

A pout and a sigh and another kiss on his cheek and she’s gone. This time he does wipe it off, wandering slowly to the window. He’s on the 34th floor, and it’s nice to stand there, on top of the city, the New York nightlife at his feet.

The saddest thing is that Blaine doesn’t miss being a part of it. Even now, even six years later, he’d trade it all for a simpler, more idyllic time. And that longing, for long-gone days and almost-forgotten promises,(I’ll never say goodbye to you) more than the files and the suits and the empty relationships, makes him feel old.