by Maggie Mountford (bio at end of story)
We were entangled in damp sheets when he said, “Could I use some coffee!” I managed to manoeuvre into a sitting position.
“Coffee?”
“Afterwards, always.” I didn’t like the way he said ‘always’. “Why always?” I said.
“That’s my rule,” he replied.
If it wasn’t for his impeccable profile I’d have thrown him out there and then. I had my standards. Instead, I found myself padding into the kitchen, nude as a chicken, and pulling down a jar of instant from the top shelf.
“What do you call that? It’s rot, not coffee!”
He had crept up behind me. He grabbed hold of my wrist and pulled me towards him. “You can’t serve a man instant!” he said, kissing my nose between every word.
“But it’s all I’ve got!”
“Then you’re done for! Did you know that?” His hands clamped around my rear as he said this, and he was lifting me into the air when I suddenly remembered.
“I have a few beans,” I murmured against his chest. “And a weird little machine someone gave me for Christmas.”
“Show me!” he ordered. I fished under the sink and brought out a box. I reached up to a furthermost shelf and produced a plastic container that held the coffee beans. “Good girl!” he said, as if I’d performed some trick for him. “Now we can have something genuine. Let’s have a look at it.”
We opened the box together. It was a brand new coffee machine. The label read: Coffee Filter Machine. For Perfect Coffee Every Day of the Week. Guaranteed. There was even a plug on it. “Brilliant!” he said. “Now what about those beans?”
“I should put something on,” I said.
“We can, once we’ve ground them.”
“I mean clothing. Now. I’m not used to working like this.”
“Have you anything to grind with?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then what’s the point of a coffee machine?”
“Wait a minute,” I said. I think I might have.” Back in the bedroom, I put something on and opened the wardrobe. On the top shelf, there was another box, labelled: Breadcrumbs, Nuts, Beans. My mother had donated it when I moved in a year ago, but I’d never used it.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said impeccable profile. We were at that stage when names are irrelevant. He plugged in the grinder, threw some beans into it, and switched it on. I covered my ears.
“It’s loud!” I complained.
“Not for long,” he replied, tipping the dark brown mass on to a plate. It smelled rather good.
“Now what do we do?” I said.
He grabbed me round the waist and whispered in my ear. “You know nothing, do you? Nothing at all. Where on earth have you been all your life?”
“Around,” I said.
“I should think you have. Everything instant? Sex, even?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“How many, then? Come on, be honest. Dozens? Hundreds? I didn’t like the question one little bit.
“None of your business,” I said. “Now let me go. Please.”
“Right. Water. Find me a jug, there’s a poppet.” I found him a jug.
“Now. Watch this.” he said. “You put water in here. And coffee in here. One big spoonful for each cup, and then one extra for good measure.” He had a wonderful voice, a perfect profile, and the most seductive brown eyes I’ve ever seen. “Are you listening?” he said. “Next, you plug in, switch on, and wait for the action.”
His hand on my shoulder, waiting for the action. Glok, glok, glok, glok.
“Sounds fine,” he said. “Now come here, woman.” The smell of brewing coffee and the long, long kiss were an awesome combination. There was time for several.
“Now, something to drink it from,” he said, releasing me so fast I almost sprang across the kitchen. “Cups, mugs?”
Meekly, I took out my two favourite mugs, covered in butterflies. He looked at them with contempt. “No white cups? The best coffee should be drunk from plain white cups. Everyone knows that.”
“That’s not true. And I have no white cups,” I said.
“Not even one?”
“Not even one,” I repeated, firmly. “But there are brown ones. Will they do?”
“Brown would be better than these,” he replied, glaring at china butterflies. I pulled down two brown cups, a brown sugar bowl, and a tiny brown cream jug. I found sugar, and even a carton of cream. It was distracting, the way he nibbled my neck as I set out a tray for us.
“Mmmm. we’ll take it back to bed,” he murmured.
“Okay,” I whispered, into his shoulder.
“I’ll carry it,” he said. Half way to the bedroom, another thought occurred to him.
“Cookies! It would be good to have cookies, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” I said, and padded back to the kitchen. I had become oddly dutiful. So dutiful, I’d have hardly recognise myself if I’d have looked in a mirror. I found a packet of chocolate chips and returned to the bedroom.
“Off with that. thing, woman!” he said, indicating the silk chemise I was wearing. With unusual abandon, I threw it to a corner of the room and flew into the sheets again. We sipped, kissed, nibbled a chocolate wafer, sipped and kissed some more, until the coffee was half gone. Entwined again, I traced my fingers along his profile. “What’s your name?” I said.
“Luigi,” he replied. “What’s yours, by the way?”
“Marilyn,” I murmured against his chest. There was a long, long silence, broken only by the silk-sound of flesh against flesh.
“Ahhh.. this is good,” he said, when we finally rose to the surface. “And the coffee wasn’t bad, either.”
“The coffee was ecstatic.”
“Tell me again. How many before me? Dozens? Hundreds?”
“Why do you ask? Why do you want to know?”
“Just one of those things a man needs to know, Marilyn.”
The way he said my name like that. It sent a shiver from the top of my spine to the ends of my toes.
“Luigi,” I replied. “A man needs to know what a woman chooses to tell him, and that’s all. Let’s say, I’m a coffee virgin. And I’ve just had my first time.”
“Coffee virgin. Coffee virgin!” he repeated. ” I like that. You are not only beautiful, you are funny, too. I like a woman to be funny. Funny is better than clever. Tomorrow, I’ll bring you new beans. Fresh beans. All the way from Italy. And some white cups. You’d like that?”
“I’d like that a lot,” I replied. “And now.”
“Let’s finish the coffee,” he said.
“It’s cold,” I replied. “You don’t want to drink it, do you?”
“You win. I don’t want to drink that,” he said.
© Maggie Mountford. All Rights Reserved.
Honorable Mention - The Coffee Machine by Maggie Mountford
Maggie is a writer and bookseller, at present living in Wells, UK. She’s been writing for some years and has published both poems and short stories. Her short stories have been read on the BBC and World Service, and her poems have appeared in poetry reviews and an anthology: In the Gold of Flesh. She is at present working on a collection of very short stories. Maggie lives with her husband, Peter, and two cats.
