Caffeine Romance

       To the coffee connoisseur, the quest for a cup is the beginning of a romance.  Across the street he scans the eyes of all the pretty girls, pausing on a particularly promising profile.  She's just his type, and the sign proclaiming "Open" is her smile back.  He picks up conversation at the counter, mixing his sweet talk with her sarcasm.  At one point a silence settles over top them, and the veil of personal distance is peeled away, as he leans in to bridge the distance between their lips.
Our particular not-yet-caffeinated cognoscente can feel the heat of her tongue on his nose when the bodega door bursts open.  His outstretched lips recoil as the pretty thing in his hand coughs up all over his shirt.
       To be fair it wasn’t her fault.
            It was the fault of the woman who now stands regarding him.  Not that he could fault her for anything; streamlined torso sheathed tight in a black dress.
            “There you are, come on.  We gotta' go.”
            Brought up to ask questions, humans are defined by the moments in life when they shoot first.
            He runs after her.
            They sprint through weekend-crowded Astor Place and slowly ease into Broadway's flock of fashionistas.   Two long-legged strides ahead of him, she walks briskly downtown.  Her slim figure slips effortlessly between sideways glances, snaking through stares, with little disregard for the looks from women and men alike. It's hard to blend in, he thinks, walking with a woman like this.
            "Hey what's this about anyway?"
            "Let's just get inside."
            "Where are we going?"
            "Chinatown."
            The apartment is bare except for a table and two plain wooden chairs.  They sit their chairs close together, gathering their densities against the desperate emptiness of the empty space.  His gaze follows aged floorboards to clean converses.  White socks peek over their rim and he scans the smooth panorama of her calves.  His eyes stop at her hem, and her hand nudges it forward.
            Forced to forego the caffeine foreplay he, somewhat disappointedly, cuts right to the chase.  His ridged fingers run along a white, contoured body, stopping to pull off plastic panties.  He grasps that firm body in his hand, opening her legs and reaching deep within them.
*ftt, ftt, ftt*
            He holds his lungs against the writhing body of a camel light.
            Shamelessly, they share that cigarette; a silent threesome, brought together by the same lover.  But sex without foreplay never seems to last as long.
            "So, where do we go from here?"  His words are rounded by a last lungful of smoke, as he crushes out the end of their cigarette.
            "They'll be watching the front door."  She stands, and walks towards the window.
            "Fire escape then?"
            She nods.  Gazing down at the alley.
            The cantankerous casement drags obstinately against its frame.  It had once admired the artists and outlaws who worked those west-facing windows, gliding gracefully open and shut.  But of artists and outlaws there have been many, and that early allure has long been replaced by a rusty reluctance.
            She surfs the steep stairs, dropping lightly to the concrete below.  He does his best to follow suit.  At the alleyway's entrance she peers around the corner.
            Tires scream their battle cry, hurdling the curb.  They sprint the short distance of the battlefield, hundreds of horses carrying the body of a metal chariot.
Her hand grips his, pulling them both across the street.  They dart through the dwindling daylight, among the echoes of orange beams bouncing off distant buildings. There is a certain promise of solace to be found among the lengthened shadows.  A certain comfort in her calm grip.
She releases his hand placing it gently on his chest.
            "We're here."
            Her apartment is simple, clean; wooden floors scantily covered in black carpet, a single flower sits sunning itself on a tiny table.  She turns the coffee on, and he returns him to the romance he had started.
            He mixes his milk and sugar with her low-voiced flavor, and they stir their minds together.  Coffee comfortably capped, the easy promise of silence settles around their shoulders
            “That was exciting,” He whispers as he tears back the flap.
            He'd been anticipating her taste since he walked into that tiny bodega, since she took his hand.  He samples her substance, testing the temperature before wetting his tongue.  Small sips ease into large gulps, and he pauses only long enough to grasp her soft pack body; hands cover curves, fingers trace her cellophane wrapping off of her waist.  Foil lingerie is ripped off and tossed onto the floor; and dirty digits dip deep inside.  He slips out a single cigarette and holds it to her mouth.  She breathes in a short, sharp shiver of breath.
            They take long drags of each other's lungs, filling the space with second hand heat. Billows of audible exhalation cloud the small room's silence.  Smoke without speech, noise without words, feelings without forms.  In comparison to the instant cigarette of that afternoon, theirs is a 100-millimeter American Spirit (and damn worth every syllable it takes to pronounce).
            He takes one final deep drag, pushing out his cigarette into her ashtray. She pushes back. Together they exhale that final lungful in deep silence, amidst the lingering smoke of their nicotine orgasm.
            Then they have coffee and cigarettes.