I've just finished ringing up a nice old lady by the name of Ethel, according to her cup, when a remarkably cute boy walks in. He has messy dark brown hair and a heart-shaped mole on his neck. 

His hair is dry, and for a moment I think he must be some kind of wizard because it's really coming down out there, but then I notice the umbrella in his hand. He walks up to the counter, and for a moment I freeze. But then I remember that I'm being paid to help him and I can save the Gay PanicTM for another time. 

He orders an iced coffee. In this weather? He's got to be gay. Well, no. Because that would be upholding an unfair stereotype. What I mean is that I hope he's gay. Or bi or whatever.

He’s cute, okay? What else am I supposed to think? And it’s not as though I’m thinking the clearest at the moment, alright?

When I ask, he tells me that his name is Oscar, and when I write it on the cup, I almost mess it up because I’m too busy trying to sneak glances at him. 

After a minute, recognition flashes like a neon sign in the back of my mind. So far back that I almost don’t even register it. But I think I've seen him before. Maybe at school? Probably. It seems like every teenager in a 50-mile radius goes to Hamilton High School.

By now, Ethel has left, and it's just me, Oscar, and my coworker, Brynne. She busies herself with his coffee, and I wonder if I should talk to him. Should I flirt with him, ask him out? But I don't even know if he's gay. And Brynne is right there. God, everything would be so much easier if I were out, if being gay were considered “normal.” But alas. 

Regardless of whatever the voices in my head are yelling at me, I decide that I should at least try to talk to him. And so I do.