Who's your turkey now, beeotch?

I guess I'll raise my hand, Horshack-style, and holler "Oh-oh-oooooh! Mr. Kotter, me, me, me."

Yup, another ill-fated crush. She's my first ever "crush" on a Greek woman not counting Tina Fey or Jennifer Aniston. Like the above mentioned objects of desire she is only half-Greek. Maybe I am attracted to her Italian side. Am I that much of a self-loathing Greek? Are there any such Greeks out there like that? Most Greeks I know are like the dad from "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" complete with nationalistic pride. Maybe I have just not met the right Greeks. I also lack olive-colored skin so I'd be considered either a "Snow-Greek" or a "White-Greek." Go figure. I became smitten with her only once I pieced together that she was, in fact, of Hellenic decent.

She is a barrista at my nearby Starbucks (crush on a barrista? I must be the only one, he thinks sarcastically). She wears a black cap with the green corporate logo, a smock, and keeps her hair in a ponytail that sticks out of the back of her cap. She also has a dotting of dark freckles on her left cheek which draw attention to her manga-sized hazel eyes. The steamers usually squeak and hiss as they shake out a cappuccino, served “right up” to faceless yuppies and wild packs of teenagers ready to squeal their way through all their conversations. Her hair droops with each “professional smile” she serves up per coffee, per customer, per hour. Since today was Thanksgiving, it was pretty silent in there. The bar I usually sit at was empty except for one other guy who sat at the end furthest from me, closest to the door.

She towers over the counter when she is behind the register, but when she mops the floors or refills the bag of cane sugar hidden under the condiment station wedged against the wall and the bar, that very same counter reaches her diaphragm. Her skin is the color of an olive, plucked from the vine, and held up to a Hellenic sun. Her hair is as dark as the espresso she serves. Wow . . . that is cheesy yet oh, so, true.

After a refill, which gave us the opportunity to talk about Spanikopita and Thanksgiving plans (albeit, very briefly), she smiled at me. I left with my coffee in a paper cup. I crushed it when I eventually finished the drink. From experience, I knows she will not be interested in me as anything more than a customer who tips better the more she flirts with me. But it doesn’t stop me from hoping. From thinking.

Oh wait . . .she has a ring on her right hand.

Opa? Sigh.