Café Crème

     “How do you like your coffee?” He asked her.
“Just cream, please.” She replied.
     “Oh? How come?”
“Sugar makes it too sweet. I want to taste it pure.”
     “Then why not just drink it black?” His elbow was now on the counter, and his chin was in his hand.
“I need the color the cream gives it. That’s how I know it’s coffee.”
     “But of course it’s coffee. You just ordered it and saw me make it.”
She tapped one finger three times on the tip of her nose. “Yes, that’s true, but my mind needs to know it’s coffee.”
     “What?” He was standing straight now.
She laughed, and it sounded like music. “When coffee’s black, it looks like it could be anything: a cup of Coca Cola, plain hot tea, car oil. But when coffee’s got creamer in it, there’s no mistaking it for anything else, and my mind is satisfied.”
     He nodded his head as he thought about what she’d said. “It could be hot tea with milk,” he said after a moment’s pondering.
     “Ah!” She raised one finger in the air, like a mother reprimanding a child. “Hot tea with milk has a more watery consistency. My brain isn’t fooled by your little tricks, Mr. Barista.”
     “Uh, it’s Trent, actually,” he pointed to his nametag, “and I think your mind could use a little less coffee.” He smiled so she’d know he bore her no ill will.
     “Perhaps,” she smiled, “But I’m going to give it all the coffee it wants. Forever and ever, as long as we both shall live.” And with that, she flipped her hair and sashayed out the door.