Morning Coffee

“You still haven’t tried Kleo’s Deli and Diner yet?”

Harriet looked at Delilah with such acrid disbelief it bordered on disgust.

“Just haven’t had the time to make it out there,” Delilah shrugged. “Something always comes up when I could go, or I think about it at some random, inopportune time.”

“Sure.” Harriet rolled her eyes, “You probably haven’t listened to any of those bands I’ve recommended either.” She pursed her lips and frowned.

“Haven’t done that either,” Delilah laughed sheepishly. “They are on the list though. I swear.”

“I just can’t with you,” Harriet shook her head in playful disbelief. “Why are we friends again?”

“Because I’m the only one that will discuss obscure arthouse horror and science fiction films with you,” Delilah reminded her with a laugh.

“Oh yeah,” Harriet tapped her forehead. “Besties by default.”

“Besties by default,” Delilah confirmed with a smirk.

The two women continued down the sidewalk, and stepped over the bruised purple and liver red fleshy tendrils, rhizomes, and stolons that glistened and squirmed as they stretched across the gray concrete.

At the end of the block, in the corner of the one story commercial building, stood The Gilded Bean, the destination of Harriet and Delilah’s three or four times a week pilgrimage.

“After you,” Harriet opened the coffee shop door for Delilah, who entered with a grateful bow of her head.

A pair of vacant eyes watched from the translucent, gummy flesh and jellified bones of a woman whose last vestiges of her female anatomy had desquamated within the squelching, writhing core of the node affixed to the outer brick wall between the coffee shop and Aesthetic Attic Vintage Clothing and Wine.

After holding the door for a departing family, Harriet stepped into the comfortable 72 degrees Fahrenheit building and joined Delilah in line.

While they waited, Delilah selected a bag of medium roast beans with a profile of chocolate, hazelnut, and subtle floral notes from Guatemala.

Chatter of conversation and orders mingled with lo-fi beats through speakers, occasional thump of tendril on plexiglass windows, and the hissing worrr of the steam wand.

“What can we get started for you?” The cashier smiled from behind the register and the display of gluten free goodies like muffins, fudgy cookie bars, slices of kladdkaka, and banana nut bread.

“I’ll get an iced vanilla latte with macadamia milk. and a Danish,” Harriet ordered.

“Unfortunally, we are all out of macadamia milk. We have whole, oat, soy, almond, and hemp right now though.”

“Oat’s fine then.”

“Harriet, right?”

“Yup!” Harriet smiled in affirmation.

“That’ll be eleven seventy-five.”

Harriet tapped her phone on the reader while a particularly thick tendril smacked and ran down a window panel with a squelching squeak, and left behind a gooey, sticky streak of slime.

Delilah then ordered her usual Americano, said she’d grind the beans at home, and paid her thirty dollars and a quarter.

The two friends took over a corner window table from a departing couple and sat across from each other in the pair of mismatched, mass produced, wooden chairs with hand-carved aesthetic.

As they waited for their names to be called, Harriet and Delilah played their usual people watching game, ranking various patrons’ outfits with the raising of eyebrows, occasionally being interrupted by “good mornings” from other regulars, and tuning out the conversations from other tables like how great the latest most popular streaming series is, and the most basic understanding of Galatians Chapter 6 spoken about as if they had made some deep discovery.

Across the way, a crow, who hadn’t yet learned its lesson, swooped down to peck at the juicy grape-like eyes of a man who was just over halfway dissolved. The bird was promptly turned into a squawking, flapping mass of feathers and caws as it ineffectually attempted to escape, joining in the fate of sparrows, overly curious felines, and nocturnal rodents whose liquified corpses dotted the quivering node like the seasoning on an everything bagel.

Names finally called, and drinks being sipped, Harriet and Delilah turned back to conversation.

“So how’s your novel going?” Harriet asked before her lips returned to her paper straw.

“Good, but slow, you know?” Delilah responded. “My usual issues. Solid on the concept and dialogue. Feel like I’m struggling with painting the full picture I’m seeing in my head. And the ending. Really struggling with the ending.”

“Plenty of famous writers who suck at endings, Del. I wouldn’t sweat it too much. Plus, I’m sure something will pop up out of nowhere.”

“Thanks, Hare.”

“What would you do without me?”

“Be at home working on my novel.”

“Touche.”

They both laughed.

The morning hours melted away over the course of conversation and alternating bathroom breaks, and around noon they returned their dishes and exited the coffee shop through the door opposite the one they entered.

“You know Kleo’s Deli and Diner is only like two blocks from here,” Harriet coaxed as they walked. “I’ll pay.”

A solitary “help me” gurgled in the throat of a freshly naked woman whose flesh had just recently begun the liquefaction process within a pulsing, oozing node.

“Okay, fine,” Delilah laughed and threw her hands up in surrender. “Let’s get lunch.”

“Finally!” Harriet clapped her hands excitedly. “Their tuna melts and Reubens are to die for.”