It was rape
It was made up
It was intentional
It was a flat white not a latte
not a cappuccino
not a single shot espresso
Not something I liked
Got me good. Savage in the heart by way of the tip of the back of my tongue as I choked on the index finger and thumb thrust into my notions like the nozzle of a gas station pump filling dead dinosaurs into my mechanical one.
And the rims on his Mercedes Benz spun on and on and on like my endless craving for a goddamned cup of mediocre unfresh black coffee poured into a stained porcelain mug my grip married 4 days ago.