Bitter Brew

I started going to the coffee shop for the coffee. That’s what I told myself, anyway. A lie so flimsy it dissolved on my tongue the second she looked at me.

Elle. The name tag on her black apron said it in white block letters, but I’d already heard it. A customer said it, thanking her for something. She’d smiled, that bright, mischievous thing that cut through all that dark makeup like a blade through shadow. I was hooked before she even handed me my first drink.

That first time, she took my order with a flat affect, her voice a low, bored monotone. “What can I get for you?”

“Black coffee. Large.”

She wrote on the cup. Didn’t look up. “Name?”

“You can put whatever you want.”

She finally lifted her chin. Her eyes were a light, startling gray, ringed in black liner so sharp it could cut glass. She studied me for a second, then wrote something. She slid the cup to the barista making drinks and rang me up. I paid, stepped aside, and watched.

She didn’t spit in it. Not that first time. But she did something. As she handed it to me, her thumb slipped, just slightly, pressing against the rim of the lid. A tiny, deliberate gesture. I took it, our fingers brushing. Her skin was cool.

I drank it anyway. It was good coffee. Dark, bitter, no sugar. Just how I liked it.

The second time, I came in on a Tuesday afternoon. The shop was empty. She was leaning on the counter, scrolling through her phone. She looked up when the bell chimed, and that flat affect was back, but there was a flicker in her eyes. Recognition.

“Back again?”

“Habit.”

“Bad ones are the best kind.” She straightened up. “Same as last time?”

“Yeah.”

She grabbed a cup. Wrote on it. I watched her hand move. She wasn’t hiding it this time. She brought the cup to her lips, not to drink, but to wet the rim with her tongue. A slow, deliberate drag of pink against white ceramic. Then she capped it and handed it to me.

“On the house,” she said.

I took it. I could feel the warmth of the cup, but also the faint, lingering dampness where her mouth had been. I didn’t say anything. I just looked at her. She held my gaze, unblinking, a small, challenging smile playing at the corners of her dark lips.

I raised the cup to my own mouth. I drank from the exact spot. Her smile widened. It was a game. A dangerous, stupid game. And I was already losing.

The third time, she was wearing a cropped black tee that showed a sliver of toned stomach. A thin silver chain hung from one of her ear cuffs. I ordered the same thing. She made it herself this time, pulling the espresso shot, steaming the milk for some other customer’s latte. She worked fast, efficient, her movements sharp and athletic. She poured my coffee, then she leaned over the counter, close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something dark. Patchouli and vanilla.

She held the cup in front of her mouth. She didn’t just wet the rim. She parted her lips and let a thin string of saliva drop into the black liquid. She stirred it with a plastic stirrer, watching me the whole time.

“You’re going to drink that,” she said. Not a question.

“Yes.”

She handed it over. I took a long sip. It tasted like coffee. And like her. A ghost of salt and warmth. She watched me swallow, her gray eyes half-lidded.

“You’re weird,” she said.

“You started it.”

“I know.” She leaned her chin on her hand. “I like that you keep coming back. Most guys would have complained. Or asked for my number. You just drink the spit coffee.”

“It’s good coffee.”

She laughed. A real laugh, bright and surprised. It changed her whole face. The heavy eyeliner, the dark lipstick, it all fell away and she was just a girl, a pretty girl with purple streaks in her hair and a laugh that made my chest tight.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“You wrote it on the cup.”

She picked up the cup and read what she’d written. She’d written “Daddy.” She bit her lip, fighting a grin. “Okay. Fair.”

“I’m Jack.”

“Jack.” She tested it. “Jack. That’s a good name. Simple. Strong.”

“And you’re Elle.”

“You read the tag.”

“I heard someone say it.”

She tilted her head. “You pay attention.”

“To you, yeah.”

The air shifted. The playfulness was still there, but something else crept in. A heavier current. She held my gaze a beat too long, then looked down at the counter. She traced a pattern in a spilled grain of sugar.

“You get off work at six?” I asked.

“Five, actually.”

“I’ll be here.”

She looked up. That smile was back, but softer. “I know you will.”

I was there at five. She came out from behind the counter, shrugging on a black denim jacket. She’d washed off the dark lipstick. Her natural mouth was pink, full. She looked younger. More real.

“Walk me to my car?” she said.

“Sure.”

We walked out into the cooling evening. The parking lot was half empty. She stopped next to a beat-up Honda Civic, the back bumper held on with duct tape. She turned to face me. We were close. I could see the tiny silver ring in her nose, the way the fading light caught the purple in her hair.

“You’re not going to kiss me,” she said.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good. Because I’m not going to let you.”

She reached out and grabbed the front of my shirt. She pulled me down, not for a kiss, but to press her open mouth against the side of my neck. Her tongue touched my skin. Hot and wet. She bit down, just hard enough to sting, then sucked. I felt the blood rush to the spot. She pulled back and looked at her work. A red mark, already darkening.

“Now you have something to remember me by,” she said.

She got in her car and drove away. I stood in the parking lot, the mark on my neck pulsing. I touched it. It was tender. I could still feel her mouth on me.

I was back the next morning. She was already behind the counter. She saw me come in. She picked up a cup before I even reached the register. She wrote on it. She didn’t spit in it this time. She licked the rim, slow and deliberate, her eyes locked on mine. Then she held the cup out to me.

I took it. Her fingers lingered on mine.

“You’re early,” she said.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Thinking about me?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. That bright, mischievous thing. “Good.”

I raised the cup to my lips. I drank. The coffee was hot. The rim was warm from her mouth. I could taste her, faint and sweet. She watched me the whole time, her gray eyes never leaving mine.

The game was still on. But the rules were changing. And I had no idea how far she was willing to go.