A holiday fling (with Starbucks)

Dear Starbucks,

We said we wouldn’t do this again. Not after Berlin. Or Rome. Or that reckless morning in Moscow when I whispered “venti matcha latte” like it meant nothing.

Back home in Australia, we pretend we’re strangers.
I pass you by, gripping my sticky chai like a moral compass, pretending I’ve moved on.
You know the rules — it’s only ever pumpkin spice latte season in Australia, or when we’re overseas.
That’s our loophole. Our little seasonal tryst.

But here I am. Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, caffeine-deprived and vulnerable —
and there you are, glowing like a beacon of mediocrity I suddenly need.

I tell myself it’s temporary. I tell myself it’s for the warmth.
But we both know better.

You ask me what I want.

I pause. Almond milk? Oat?
We’ve done this dance before — you, always just sweet enough to make me forget my values.

I order something safe. Something sweet.
Something that tastes like compromise and comfort. An almond matcha.

We sit together in silence, my cold hands wrapped around your paper cup.
And for a moment, it’s enough.

We won’t talk about this when I’m back.
My flat white friends wouldn’t understand.
The café scene in Australia is too good for us to be together there.

But you…
you always know where to find me — when my passport is in my pocket.

Until next time —
when the Wi-Fi’s weak, the jet lag’s cruel, and your syrupy embrace feels like home.
Bella Boo

Places we may or may not have rendezvoused.