I used to work evenings and weekends at a coffee shop in DC as I was interning. You know, making ends meet. I'd dredge in, don an apron, and attempt a bubbly persona. I still think about you, with your slight accent and your ruffled hair and your stained sweatpants. Always dropping in when I was working, the light conversation, the goofy smiles, your gaze fixed upon the sliver of my waistline that peeked through my skirt. I don't know your last name, and I'm not even sure of your first, or how long you're going to be in DC or if you even lived there. But I do know how you like your coffee and your women.