âI know where you live.â
I stop mid pour. The rich smell reaches my nose and itâs glorious, despite not being able to stomach the stuff.
âI donât think you do.â I say calmly, tipping the pot once again. Little coffee bubbles dance on the old Formica countertop.
âI do,â he says. âSaw you outside the Laundromat last week. You were driving that old green wagon.â
He takes a sip and closes his eyes as if itâs the best thing heâs ever tasted. His lips pull into a wide, flat line.
âYeah, well I donât live at the Laundromat.â I joke.
Itâs the simple things, isnât it?â He sighs. âCoffee, black and hot. Cures whatever ails.â
âI donât drink it,â I tell him. âBut I imagine if I did, Iâd be dousing it with cream and sugar.â
âNah, that stuff just smothers the quality of the bean. I like to know what Iâm drinking.â His eyes are still closed but they open when he asks; âHow in the world can you work in a diner and not drink coffee?â
âLove the smell, canât stand the taste.â
âAh, it can be a cruel, cruel world.â He nods and smiles a little wider, exposing surprisingly white teeth from behind his reed-thin lips.
Ding.
Slamming my chit on the spike, I grab his order from under the warmer and set it in front of him. Two eggs, sunny side up, extra crispy bacon and sourdough toast, lightly buttered.
âHow long you had that car?â He asks.
As he snaps off a piece of bacon and dips it in the ketchup heâs squirted on the edge of the plate, I canât help but wonder where his sense of quality is now.
âFour years,â I answer. âMy Grandma left it to me.â
The dark moons under his nails loosely string each finger together like a black crepe streamer and his clothes are on the worn side of things, much like his skin, supple and weathered.
âAh, a treasure then. Itâs a â73, isnât it?â
âYeah, how did youâŚ?â
âLucky guess,â he says. âWe used to have one back in the day. I learned to drive in it.â He chuckles. âShowing my age now, I suppose.â
âMore?â I hold the pot over his almost empty cup.
He nods. I pour.
Despite his ruffled appearance, I can smell fresh shampoo and sharp aftershave as I lean in to wipe up the drips.
âIt was a guilt gift,â I confess. âShe wanted nothing to do with me. The car made her feel better.â
âDid it make you feel better?â
âProbably not for the right reasons,â I admit. âItâs the only thing I own. Itâs more important than it should be now.â
âIâll take it off your hands.â He offers and slides his business card across the counter. It claims heâs the owner of the Green Bean Organic Coffee Plant. The same coffee we use in the diner.
âI canât. I still need it.â
âIf you didnât have it, where would you be?â
âUm, taking the bus?â My eyes shift.
âSometimes itâs good to rid yourself of things that are holding you back.â
âI told you, I still need it.â I look away. âWhy are you so hot for my car anyway?
âI could say itâs because itâs green. Or because, like I said, I learned to drive in that very same car.â
He lightly knocks his fist twice on the countertop. â
âBut, Iâd be lying. Itâs because I know where you live.â

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