Um, thanks?

I like coffee, and like a good American I like my coffee to taste like exploitation. Every morning I head down the street in my suburban dystopia (just kidding, it's really more like an insane asylum) to the local coffee shop. I'll give you three guesses for which franchise it is, and the first two don't count. I wander down, usually stopping inside (not a fan of drive-through windows) and perhaps making idle chatter with the barista/o in residence.
I've always marveled a little at the nature of everyday human interaction in places like coffee shops. There is often a depth of feeling exchanged that, however brief, surpasses that of emotional displays between longtime friends. I suppose you could call it sympathy, especially from those who have also worked similar jobs (food service breeds a species of camaraderie) but it's more than that. I honestly believe that the particular kind of anonymity that is derived from the sheer number of these basic interactions allows for comfort, more so than might be found in more invested relationships. There's an understanding: "I don't know you outside of this atmosphere, and therefore (quite naturally) don't care. You have much the same opinion. Q.E.D. if I tell you that I want to commit a homicidal act upon my boss and you have similar feelings, we can commiserate in perfect harmony for the next 15 seconds. Yay."
All that being said, the boundaries of this kind of relationship (and yes, there are boundaries) were stretched the other day when a barista randomly interjected the following into our banter: "Hey, you're from Kentucky." Now, it's true, I was born in Kentucky. I moved before I began forming memories (I was still in diapers) but yes, I was born there. I have not, however, formed any memory of meeting this woman, have never disclosed any personal detail aside from my drink preference (chai, if you must know, and judge as you will) and really have no frame of reference involving her in my life. This statement, then, was such a remarkable non-sequitur that I literally could not respond. This does not happen to me often. I'm not always successfully witty, but I usually manage to return a comment in some form. That day, I had nothing.
What do you say to that? "Congratulations, those stalking lessons are coming along nicely." "...and from your accent, you must be ex-KGB!" "Please, please, don't arrest me for that thing in Detroit. I swear the donkey was that way to begin with!" Among all the multitudinous possibilities, I could not find a proper response. Her co-worker did that for me. "Holy shit, _____, that was creepy."
Yup. That'll do.
It turns out that while taking a test for the census enumerator position back in April, this particularly observant barista was in the row behind me and happened to remember the proctor of the test mentioning my birthplace. It was not a case of creepy behavior, but just solid memory and random association. Still, I could not help but reflect that this is a logical conclusion for the aforementioned depth of connection: sometimes, flirting with a barista will backfire... badly.
So the next time you order your coffee, reflect on how many times this particular person has seen your credit card, your license plate, and exactly how often they've reflected upon your dietary habits. I'll leave you with that comforting thought as you scramble to find change for their tip-jar.