She makes the best coffee in the world. Itís African, special import, and she grinds it herself. Large granules, which is extravagant and makes the taste richer, darker. Itís thick, hot and luscious, overloading the senses, almost too much to take, first thing in the mornings. A drop of cream, no more, adds sweetness and contrast. The coffee is African, her lilting accent is British and her beauty is Oriental. No matter how she tells me that correct term is Asian, I still think of her as Oriental, exotic and fragrant.
She is hot and humid when I touch her and it seems unbelieveable that she doesn't love me. Her mouth says it is so. But her coffee and her other mouth say otherwise.