Coffee & Coke
The 190-degree placebo. That was the trick.
The doctor was local royalty in a town too small to check his ego. He didn’t just want caffeine; he wanted a witness to his own importance. He would pay at the first window, insult the lineage of a nineteen-year-old, take his cup at the second, and then loop back around like a shark in a Lexus.
“Cold,” he’d bark into the speaker. “Incompetent.”
McDonald’s coffee. The kind that could cauterize a wound. Skin-grafting, industrial-grade heat served in a cup designed to survive a nuclear winter. It wasn’t cold. It was never cold. This was just a man of a higher social class reminding the help that he could make them jump.
I started intercepting the drama. I’d meet him at the glass with a voice like synthetic maple syrup; thick, sweet, and entirely artificial.
“Oh, Doctor,” I’d coo, “we simply cannot have that. Let me fix this tragedy for you.”
I would take his cup and walk a few steps away, stand there for exactly ten seconds watching the grease-trap, and then walk back. I didn’t change the lid. I didn’t touch the pot. I gave him back the exact same cup of 190-degree liquid.
“Freshly brewed,” I’d say.
He would take a sip, his face settling into the smug satisfaction of a man who had successfully bullied the world into compliance. “Better,” he’d grunt. “See? Was that so hard?”
It wasn’t hard at all. It was the same coffee.
Years later, I’m in my “big girl” career, wearing clothes that don’t smell like a deep fryer. The news filtered in like a weather report: the doctor was dead. Heart attack in his office. A dusting of white powder on the desk and a trail of divorced nurses in his wake.
His former receptionist ended up at my firm. She’d tell stories about the office. The screaming, his ego, the wreckage of his personal life. I’d listen, nodding politely, never mentioning the mornings at the drive-thru.
I didn’t need to tell her that I’d already performed his autopsy years ago. I knew exactly what was inside him: nothing but a lukewarm need to be right, and a cup of coffee that was always, always too hot for him to handle.
Just Being Honest
Hey. So. I’m just being honest.
“I love deep connections,” he says, eyes fixed on a point three inches above my head. “She comes first. My daughter. Always.” He says it like he invented the concept of a child, like he’s the first man in history to possess a biological imperative and a high-speed data plan. “Just being honest,” he adds, the universal preface for someone preparing to be an absolute drain on my resources.
(Level 1: The Eye Twitch)
Honestly? I love that for you. I love a man who puts the person he legally has to support at the top of a very short list. It’s groundbreaking. Truly. I’m currently updating my resume to include “Listened to a man describe basic human decency as a personality trait” under Professional Skills. My blood pressure is a flat, joyful line. I am a pond. A very still, very stagnant pond.
“I’m not looking for drama. I don’t like games. Unless it’s basketball. Or poker. Or situationships that don’t count because we never labeled the fire while we were standing in the middle of it.” He smiles. It’s the smile of a man who hasn’t checked his own oil in three years.
(Level 2: The Mental Inventory)
No drama. Right. Just the quiet, low-frequency hum of a man who uses “no labels” as a structural support beam for his cowardice. He doesn’t play games; he just plays the “Is she going to leave if I go silent for forty-eight hours” lottery. I’m not spiraling. I’m just calculating the exact volume of water it would take to fill his car through the sunroof. For science. For the “work” I’m still doing.
“I’m very emotionally intelligent. I’ve done the work. I’m still doing it. But also, I don’t want anything serious. My ex is crazy. I wish her the best, though. For my daughter, balance is key. You get it.”
(Level 3: The Internal Screaming)
Oh, I get it. I get it with the force of a thousand suns. You’ve done “the work” which usually means you watched a three-minute TikTok about boundaries and now you use them like a riot shield. “My ex is crazy” is just code for “I ignored her until she spoke in a pitch only dogs could hear.” I’m currently imagining his “balance”, it looks like a unicycle on a tightrope made of dental floss. I’m not angry. I’m just wondering if the “work” includes learning how to finish a sentence without mentioning your own nobility.
“I value communication. I just don’t like texting all the time. I’m a phone call guy. But not every day. I’m very busy. I make time for what matters. That’s just facts. No offense. Honesty is rare these days.”
(Level 4: Full Villain Origin)
No offense taken. Why would I be offended by a man whose entire personality is a series of opt-out clauses? You aren’t “upfront,” you’re just a disclaimer in a cheap suit. I’m actually grateful. You’ve handed me the blueprint for the only architecture I’m interested in from now on. I’m going to take this exact “busy phone-call guy” script, and perfect the delivery. I’m going to be the “freedom-loving” phantom to every man who thinks he’s earned a minute of my focus. You haven’t wasted my time; you’ve provided the curriculum.
Jessica Edmond is a writer whose work favors long sentences, a wink of mischief, and language that refuses to behave. Her poems and prose operate at the intersection of satire and indictment. She has upcoming publications in Shine Poetry Quarterly, Fragmentation Magazine, Blood + Honey, The Paradox Review, and more. The iconic Maleficent is the villain of her dreams. Maleficent’s icy elegance, raw power, unapologetic “Mistress of All Evil” energy, and delightfully petty flair for dramatic revenge make her utterly alluring and unforgettable.
