Fiction In A Cup of Coffee

Dee gasped when the coffee she stirred splashed in her eyes.

"Auwww." I'm sure, drowsiness soon escape from the ladder. From the glass of the bookcase, I saw the shadow of her hand groping the tissue. And then took a sheet to clean the eyes.

I understand. Dee is always bored at these moments. She grumbled, a sort of lovable lover. She said, in a cup of coffee there are bidders. But, this coffee is no longer the antidote to the same taste as before. She is no longer able to bind ions, let alone move the neurons drove as fast as lightning. The theory of coffee is just a fairy tale for the people of love. It was nothing more than a cigarette appendage in the clouds of nicotine smoke with the sounds of not wearing a worn-out typewriter.

"It's the second cup since you started typing," I glanced at the clock. Two clocks squeeze exactly at 12. That means I've been sitting there about four hours.

"I salute coffee lovers, their stomach is as solid as a wall of pure cement." To this sentence, I was forced to turn and chuckle. I got up and stepped toward her. Now we sit side by side on the couch.

"It's Saturday night, which means that the cappulove will espresso everything, my tongue is already latte to taste every drop."