I Burned My Tongue in Colorado

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“It looks like a penis.”

“A penis?”

“Definitely a penis. Penis adjacent at a minimum.”

Parker and I stared down at the plate. The croissant was about six inches long, engorged on one end, with a slight bend to the right. The raspberry glaze gave it a pinkish hue.

“What if we rotate it?” Parker nudged the plate counterclockwise. A dribble of vanilla custard oozed from the tip.

“Let’s try another angle.” I twisted the plate back to its original position, then tilted the tripod twenty degrees.

Nope.

“Maybe if I adjust the lighting.” Parker cranked the temperature on the panel lights down from neutral white to warm white, then inserted a light diffuser over the LED bulbs. “Any better?”

I peered through the viewfinder.

A giant penis stared back at me.

Not that I had any recent personal references to draw upon for a visual comparison. With penises, that is, not pastries. I had plenty of personal references with pastries.

Still staring into the viewfinder, I could have sworn the cream hole winked.

You’re probably wondering who the strange woman is taking pictures of a raspberry flavored schlong.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Samantha Li, but my followers call me Sam.

I’m an influencer. Which means that businesses, sponsors as we like to call them, give me stuff and I promote it. Basically, it’s like marketing.

Or prostitution, if you ask my mom. But, as I’ve explained to her six hundred and forty-seven times, yes, it’s a real job, and yes, people pay me to do it.

Sometimes quite generously.

Other times … not.

Parker is my assistant. An up and coming social media star himself.

Okay, star may be generous. His parents go to the same church as mine do, so that’s how we met.

I agreed to share my brilliance and wisdom in exchange for logistical support and manual labor.

Like coffee fetching. And moving furniture into my new apartment.

That morning, we were doing a promotion for a new place called the “Golden Bean,” the latest, greatest coffee shop in Beverly Hills.

So far, other than the phallus shaped pastries, it was …

decent. The air hung thick with vanilla notes and caramelized sugar.

Edison bulbs dangled from the ceiling. The playlist was vaguely indie with just the right amount of bass.

Most importantly, one of the baristas had a man-bun and a sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm. Any coffee shop hoping to have a chance of relevance in Los Angeles HAD to have a barista with a man-bun.

“We could use the muffins instead?” Parker pointed to the display case where a pair of plump strawberry frosted mounds, red cherries perched on top, were framed behind the glass.

I rolled my eyes, making sure Parker could see it. “Clearly, the universe is mocking me.”

Man-bun called our order and Parker bounced over to the counter. Parker was what they call a “morning person.” Someone who can function before 10:00am. I, on the other hand, was what they call a “normal person.” Someone who functions best after noon.

As Parker gathered our drinks, I looked around for other shots I could use. Tech bros hunched over MacBooks. Aspiring screenwriters pecked away at their keyboards. A cluster of yoga enthusiasts in coordinated athleisure sat in the corner.

Parker returned from the counter, placing one of two steaming white mugs on the table. “That one’s the lavender pistachio.” The image of a swan floated on the surface, fresh froth fizzing.

I snapped a few photos. Luckily, nothing came out looking phallus shaped.

Parker positioned the second mug beside the first. “And that’s the turmeric cardamom.” A foam tulip bubbled beneath the steam. It sort of reminded me of a vulva, but I took pictures of it, anyway.

When I finished shooting the latte art, I looked up to find Parker staring at me. “What?”

“Aren’t you going to eat it?” He bobbed his head toward the croissant. More of the creamy white filling had seeped out at the end.

“I think I’m good.”

“Just because it looks bad doesn’t mean it tastes bad.” Parker delicately lifted the croissant with two hands. “Looks aren’t everything, you know.” A glob of custard fell and splattered on the plate.

“Actually, young apprentice, in our business, looks are everything. Perception is reality. Virtual reality, at least. How something tastes is irrelevant. The only things that matter are likes and views.”

As Parker wrangled the thing into his mouth, I contemplated how ironic it was that a twenty-one-year-old Chinese-American man-boy presumed to lecture me on life. Apparently, mansplaining wasn’t limited to boomer-aged Caucasians.

“Ohh meh gawd,” said Parker, mouth full of cream. “Dis es ah-meez-in.” His face looked like he was in the middle of having a … well … never mind. If I weren’t so repulsed, I would have taken a video of the spectacle for my YouTube channel.

“You sure you don’t want just a little taste?” Parker offered me the last gooey morsel, smacking his lips.

I waved him off. “I’m sure. Besides, we should start heading over to our LuxeLife interview. I checked the time on my phone. “I want to be early just in case.”

“You know, it’s only a couple blocks from here,” said Parker. “We could walk.”

I looked up from checking the engagement metrics on my phone. “Walk?”

Parker pointed out one of the Golden Bean’s gold leaf framed windows. “It’s beautiful outside. The sky’s blue. The sun is shining. You can barely see the smog.”

“You know what’s even more beautiful than outside?”

Parker shook his head.

“Anything inside.” It’s true what they sing in that Missing Persons song, “Nobody Walks in L.A.” Because nobody does walk in L.A. Especially me. Walking, or really any sort of physical activity whatsoever, was NOT something I would ever choose to do willingly.

“Nervous?” Parker’s eyes drifted to my fingers, which I realized were tapping on the table at the pace of a thrash metal song.

“Ehh.” I waved him off, careful not to raise my arm too high and reveal the waterfall of stress sweat pouring out of my pits.

I wasn’t nervous.

I was terrified.

The LuxeLife contract, if I got it, would become my SIGNATURE gig. If I could get in with LuxeLife, my career would blow up faster than a new grumpy cat meme. Watch out Kardashians, here I come!

My foot tapped the floor as if it were at a tryout for Riverdance. Maybe a walk to burn off some nervous energy would do me some good. Or a quick sprint to Encino. But that would have involved physical effort. So no.

“Hey Siri, grab me an Uber,” I called to my phone.

“Opening YouTube,” came the robotic response.

“No, Siri, that’s not what I’m looking for.”

“Here are the lyrics to U2’s ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.’”

“No, I need a car to pick me up.”

“Setting a reminder. Pick up car from shop,” Siri chirped cheerfully.

“Why does everything have to be so difficult?” What happened next would have made Rube Goldberg proud.

I grabbed my phone.

Still locked to the tripod I’d been using to take pictures of the latte art.

The tripod knocked over the light panel.

Which crashed into the turmeric cardamom mug.

Creating a tidal wave of tulip-shaped froth.

Which hurtled across the birchwood tabletop right at me.

Fortunately for me, Parker had cat-like reflexes. He leaped out of his chair, snatched a fistful of napkins from the dispenser, and sopped up the flowing foam just as it reached the edge of the table.

Unfortunately for me, Parker had hippopotamus-like hand-eye coordination. In his heroic efforts to stem the tide of turmeric cardamom, his elbow smacked the pistachio lavender, which tumbled straight into my lap.

Lava-hot latte soaked through my LoveShackFancy miniskirt, hot coffee dripping down my legs. My nether regions felt like they had gotten a bikini wax with a flamethrower.

That’s when man-bun intervened.

“I got you!” Super Man-Bun leapt to the rescue, barista towel waving like a superhero cape, lunging toward my crotch. Head between my knees, he froze, realizing the compromising position of where he’d need to dab. His face turned the color of a boob-shaped muffin.

“Thanks.” I snatched the towel from his hand. “I got it from here.” I tried to mop up the spill, but the coffee soaked through. An unfortunate wet patch now stained my entire pelvic area.

Man-bun and I made eye contact, neither one of us sure how to proceed. I handed back his towel. “Thanks?”

We both looked down at my wet crotch before resuming the awkward eye contact. “You’re welcome?”

As Man-Bun slunk back behind the counter, I looked up to find Parker smiling, not at all concerned with my latte scalding.

“Why are you smiling?”

“You know what that was, don’t you?”

“A third-degree burn?”

“That was a meet-cute,” said Parker, a twinkle in his eye.

“That was not a meet-cute. That was a ‘random coffee shop guy with a man-bun invading the personal space of my crotch.’ There was nothing cute about it.” I grabbed some more napkins and sopped up the espresso that had leaked into my shoe.

“And if it was a meet-cute, it was a terrible one. People don’t form relationships based on random coffee shop misadventures.

” When I looked up, Parker’s eyes were still twinkling. “You’re still smiling. Stop smiling.”

“You should get his number.”

“So I can send him my dry-cleaning bill? Good idea.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I. This skirt costs almost as much as my monthly rent. If that boutique in Sherman Oaks hadn’t sent it to me as part of a promo, I’d never be able to afford something like this on my own.”

“He’s totally into you,” said Parker, ignoring my skirt problems. “Plus, he’s kinda cute.”

“If I were into man-buns,” I said. “Which I am not. Besides, I have no time for dating. And even if I had time to pursue some semblance of a relationship, there isn’t a decent guy worth … relating … in the entire state. California men are sus. L.A. men especially.”