Coffee Cup
His fingers traced
His fingers danced
His fingers teased
slowly around the wide brim, and as we sat there, just the two of us, I became increasingly disturbed. How could one so…
unsophisticated
be sitting there with me? There we were, the two Nymphomaniacs, the Happy Exhibitionists—
he, tracing cryptic messages absently into the steam of his green tea,
and I, wishing I was anywhere but there right then, watching the steam rise from my own caramel macciato as he gazed at me.
A girl cautiously stood up and approached the microphone. She stuttered over the introduction, but soon flowed over the piece. We watched as she searched our eyes for any hint of understanding—
We did understand.
In fact, we understood better than anyone else in that small, cozy café. He suddenly reached over and stole a small sip of my macciato. I looked up at him disapprovingly and he instantly lowered his obscenely blue eyes. Ice chips, they were: clear, blue ice chips that began to cool my coffee. Soon we left
(having no desire for cold coffee),
and
he once again traced
he once again danced
he once again teased,
but this time the wide brim transformed into my skin—
We made love there in the café parking lot.
* Kelly Oziemblo is a creative writing student at the University of South Florida and freelance writer from Plant City, Florida.
