The Weekday One Hundred

She stared at me, a devilish grin on her pale freckled face. I stared at the electronic device in her hand.

The tiny digital window demanded to know how much I planned on tipping for my grande latte. My head screamed nothing – all she did was hand over sixteen ounces of liquid. My heart said otherwise. I knew if I didn’t tip at least twenty-five percent, I’d never get a shot at a second date.

I was in a bit of a romantic pickle – my least favorite kind.

My finger hovered above the keypad.

So… was she twenty-five percent cute?