Downtown

"Ooooh, what an attractive man!" says the woman behind the counter at Caffe del Doge. She has a heavy Italian accent and fluffy blond hair. I turn to look for the attractive man (who wouldn't?) Behind me in line: one middle aged, average-looking guy in a yellow windbreaker and those silly stretchy biking shorts. The man grins hugely.

"Most attractive man all day so far!" agrees the other woman behind the counter. And to me: "Latte macchiato, piccolo, right?"

"Right," I say, and turn again to see what I'm missing in shiny-blue-bike-shorts guy.

The two women behind the counter laugh, not the basic flirty giggle you usually get around here, but a real laugh. Both women both seem incredibly awake for 8:30 am. I mean, they can flirt. "He's my husband," the first woman says to me, pointing at bike-short guy with her chin. "We don't really rate all the men."

I lean forward, keeping my voice low as if this were some kind of conspiracy. The oh-so-Italian guy with the neatly-folded newspaper standing next to me, elbows on the counter, doesn't move. "Would it be so bad if you did?" I ask.

She grins. "Well, we do, but we don't tell everyone."

Bike-short guy steps forward. "Cappuccino," he says, and I can see that both he and the woman behind the register think this is incredibly funny.

"Cappuccino again," says the woman, shaking her head: she doesn't believe it. I bet this happens every morning.

Latte macchiato, piccolo, in hand, I head back onto the street and start walking home.