Will Date For...Coffee?

My Starbucks barista is totally hot. He's from Brazil or Argentina or some shit, probably goes to auditions before his work shift or rocks some club with his hard core salsa band in the evenings. He just has that look, y'know? That clearly the green apron (which brings out his eyes) is just a temporary pit stop on his white-hot trip to greatness.
This is all in my head, BTW. I've never said more than "Ha, uh, hi..." and "double shot light foam, thanks, heh heh *cough*." This is what I dream up whilst he whips up my order. Would I ever dare to make a move? Of course not. One, because I'm a pussy. Two, because I'm a stuck up bitch that has a problem with his job. I would be ashamed to tell my friends, "Yeah, he's gorgeous, smart, funny--and he makes the meanest Nonfat Vanilla Latte this side of the Mississippi!" Now, if he was a bartender, I'd be OK with that. Why does the addition of one ingredient suddenly make him acceptable?
Anyway, as IF he'd give me the time of day, my boring, Admin Assistant, Banana Republic sale rack suit with Payless shoes and massive credit card debt...