Anne and her friend Wren were sitting at the kitchen table talking easily over their second cups of coffee when Farley shuffled into the room and headed straight for the small, manual espresso machine on top of the microwave. Wren opened her mouth to greet her, but Anne shook her head.
“Far is nonverbal before her first cup of coffee,” Anne told her and Wren nodded.
They continued to chat while Farley unscrewed the top to the water reservoir and poured in a half-cup of water, using the espresso decanter to measure it. She screwed the top back on, dropped three scoops of sugar into the decanter and set it to the side, then detached the portafilter and scraped the damp grinds from yesterday out of it. She filled it with fresh grinds and replaced the portafilter, put the decanter under the spout and turned to stare at Anne and Wren.
“So then he said to me: I like my women like I like my coffee – all over my crotch when I’m driving,” Wren said.
“No, oh, fuck no! He did not,” Anne groaned and covered her face with one of her hands.
“Yeah, so I unbuckled my seatbelt and he looked all excited.” Wren took a sip of her coffee. “And when he stopped at the red light I just got out of the car.”
Anne let out a delighted laugh. “Beautiful!”
“I am telling you, dating in this city is insane,” Wren said, drawing out the ‘a’ in insane.
“I like my men like I like my coffee,” Farley croaked out, her voice wrecked from twelve hours of sleep and no use. Anne and Wren looked at her, waiting for the punchline. “Light, sweet, and on ice.”
Wren choked on her coffee, Anne dropped her head down onto the table, and Farley looked genuinely confused.
“Farley,” Anne whined as Wren coughed hard. “No talking before your first cup of coffee.”
“What? What did I say?” Farley looked wounded. “What was wrong with that?”
“On ice? You sound like a necrophiliac,” Anne explained
Farley blinked at her slowly before she said, “Necrophilia, the irresistible urge to crack open a cold one.”
“Farley! Too early!”