Little old me was just minding my own business this morning, sitting at Goodrich, doing work. Then, the next thing I know, the barista calls my name. “Semolina!” Uh, that can’t be right. I already got my steamed cow. And I don’t think anyone else at Williams is named Semolina. Unless their parents also work for big flour.
But the drink went untouched for twenty minutes on the Goodrich counter, so I figured I had to see what was happening. “Uh, sorry, I don’t think I ordered this,” I said to the barista. “I don’t know man,” she responded. “The guy over there with the suit told me to write your name.” And there, leaned up against the oat milk fridge, was what I can only describe as a gentleman.
He made his way over to me, his buckled loafers clicking as he stepped. He removed his top hat and bowed. “Miss Semolina, I see you received that token of my affection,” he said as he pointed at the ecocup that had only question marks and my name written on it.
I was pretty confused about what was going on, but I didn’t want to make this guy think I didn’t know who he was. Maybe he had been in my entry or something. “Uh, sorry, do I know–”
“I saw you from across the way, and never in all my years, have I seen such beauty. The way that you underline at random in your Nietzsche book, the way that your sweatpants sway as you walk through Goodrich Hall, the way that your hair cascaded as you tripped on the stage stairs—I am simply enamored.”
“Um, I mean, I’m okay, you can have the drink back…”
“Nonsense, m’lady, I asked them to make it special just for you,” the man replied as he twirled the chain of his pocketwatch around his finger. “Extra foam and whipped cream. I just love dairy.”
I tried to tell him that I was lactose intolerant, but he said “pshah” and cut me off. He pulled a lactaid out of his pocket and suavely flicked it toward me. It went like three feet over my head and landed in the utensil return bin.
“You see, it’s not everyday that Freidrich Tanglewood VI ’25.5 orders a drink for a lovely lady.” He fiddled with his cufflinks as he winked at me.
Before I could respond, he leaned against his gold-encrusted dragon-headed walking stick and did a heel click. I explained that I was flattered, but unfortunately was already full from my steamed cow and cinnamon raisin bagel with jalapeño cream cheese, so I would have to pass. He sighed and took the drink he had ordered me out of my hand.
“I wish you only the best, good lady,” he said to me as he wound up his arm to slide the drink across the Goodrich bar. It slid a few inches and then fell and spilled all over the barista’s Association for Women in Math t-shirt. His cape fluttered behind him as he took off in a sprint towards the door. But he stopped to hold the door for those entering, the gentleman he is, tipping his hat to each one. I haven’t seen him since.