A short story from Hazy Shades of Me
“I know where you live.”
I stop mid pour. The rich smell reaches my nose and it’s glorious, despite not being able to stomach the stuff.
“I don’t think you do.” I say calmly, tipping the pot once again. Little coffee bubbles dance on the old Formica countertop.
“I do,” he says. “Saw you outside the Laundromat last week. You were driving that old green wagon.”
He takes a sip and closes his eyes as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. His lips pull into a wide, flat line.
“Yeah, well I don’t live at the Laundromat.” I joke.
It’s the simple things, isn’t it?” He sighs. “Coffee, black and hot. Cures whatever ails.”
“I don’t drink it,” I tell him. “But I imagine if I did, I’d be dousing it with cream and sugar.”
“Nah, that stuff just smothers the quality of the bean. I like to…
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