The Latte Manifesto

This morning I went to the lab to have blood drawn for a series of tests that check for coagulation problems. It was 10 in the morning, and as required, I hadn’t eaten since about 7pm the night before. Mike, an obese man with a habit of laughing raucously at his own bad jokes, spent nearly 45 minutes on my paperwork, during which time I developed a migraine and an acute feeling of persecution. The lab tech was a friendly, notably homely Indian woman named Lucky. Her accent was almost impenetrable. As she assembled the 12 or so vials that she was about to fill with my blood, she said, “I like your face.” I panicked and could not manage to return the compliment, instead stammering out a weak thank you and then something idiotic about how I try to smile as much as possible, which is not at all true. I like to think that if I had been in my right mind, I would have replied graciously, perhaps appreciating her name, or her lab coat. “I like your face.” What an odd thing to say.

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