So long, psychotic delusions. I will miss you.

I had a feeling the last time I saw him. The way he lingered after his shift was over, hesitant to leave the job he seemed to like so much. I felt a new level of electricity in his gaze, an unfamiliar urgency. It dripped from his words, when he told me he would start school again soon. I had a feeling then.

Hottie McLatte was going to leave me.

Like most amateur psychic mediums, I downplayed my intuition, told myself I was looking too much into it.

But now it's been two weeks since I last saw McLatte. New, strange men work his shift, ignorant of the fact that an integral part of their labor force is missing in action. What an anti-climactic end to the pseudo-romance I blogged about for you, dear readers. Our spark ended in a desperate fizzle.

I am reminded now of an oft-quoted poem, which serves as a comment not only on the cycles of nature, but also the undulations of every day life. Robert Frost's words are so apropos for this romance that blossomed as the crisp autumn leaves turned brilliant reds and golds, and then faded away as those same leaves fell to the ground, curled and crunchy, their vibrance only a memory.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay

Was Robert Frost writing about McLatte, just as Kristin Chenoweth sang about him? We will never know. I do know that I will miss McLatte dearly, his playful conversation, his easy smile.

Most of all, I will miss those discounts.