Espresso or Are These Beans Burnt? They Taste Burnt to Me.

They went to the same cafe every day. Sat there sipping the same lattes and reading the same books they had brought with them each and every time before. He always sat in the back of the room. She liked the window. Most afternoons, he wrote. She liked the way he held his pen. The way his writing looked effortless when she only ever struggled. She thought one day that he might look up at her in passing. She tried to order loud enough so that he could hear. She wanted it “Rich, and Thick, with lots of Sweet … Buttery … Foam.” She licked her lips, thought of licking him. He looked over at her. That was the second time in a month. Did he know what she was thinking? Did he want to suck that latte foam off her mouth? Did he want her, right there on the table with the barista watching?
bloody coffee
Yes … He did.

He’d always wanted her, wanted to dribble steaming hot milk on her stomach until it boiled her flesh inside out. He wanted to shove pastry up her ass with his leather-clad fist. He imagined her insides tasted gooey like sugary cream salted taffy left out in the sun. He smiled at her. Adjusted his pants. Went back to writing. He imagined her in just her lacey black panties. He had looked, once, and seen them when she crossed her legs. She wore those stockings, the kind with garters. He wanted to cut them off slow with the straight razor he had in his pocket, wanted to wrap them around her throat while he kissed her gasping red mouth. She was so sexy. He imagined she’d scream, slap his face. He imagined she wanted him like that, her chest flushed and heaving, glass breaking all around them. He could feel the sweat against the hair on his legs.


He wanted her, all of her — her meat, her organs, and her pretty blue eyes — and he wanted her to want him. Wanted her to beg for it until she couldn’t take it anymore.


He wanted those gorgeous latte covered lips, face down now, heels up later in the dumpster.

“Sir! … Do you need anything else?”

He put his pen down, took his glasses off, and wiped the sweat from the lenses. He looked over at her. She was still smiling at him.

“Yes,” he replied to the waiter. “Can I have some very hot milk? To go.”

By Cheryl Anne Gardner

2 responses to “Espresso or Are These Beans Burnt? They Taste Burnt to Me.

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