Peripheral Criminal

Grey in the backyard. I start the grind. Out there and east across the States, all the fucking labor jobs and factories burn for my pleasure. Shower turns on. I grind it for exactly 7 more seconds then flatten the grounds in the group. My dog walks in, gets his Crackbone, and runs off to eat it on the bed. Not on his own bed, never, but mine. I pour the almond milk in and switch the knob for steam. I need to shave, or I don't. I don't need to care, really. I steam the milk and build the foam, pour it in and top off the mug with a professional touch of foaming grace. I spent $666.00 on the machine at Macy's. Not to sound dippy, but the universe sends a message like that and I run with it. I walk out and set the coffee on the coaster. The shower turns off and I start my own cup. She walks out of the bathroom naked. I press in for the grind and watch her move peripherally -peripheral criminal- toward the table, "Is the red cup mine?"

"Bingo."

"You're so sweet. Making me coffee."

"Not as sweet as your hot, little-" I press in to top off the group with grounds. She laughs and walks into the bedroom with her coffee. Long and lean. Tan lines just so. I watch her little ass move from side to side and I lock the group into place, press the double shot icon and watch the grey outside. Back at the table I go to Prose. while she dresses, read this Challenge title and think about all I could say, the unselfish things, but it occurs to me that this moment made the cut, along with many others I usually fail to admire: Sunlight on Elliot Bay, the eyes of my dog after he eats, the feeling of my steering wheel, morning sex with a lean brunette, strong coffee made by your own hand while sitting in your own leather chair, the typewriter on your desk waiting to be worked over with words. All of these things, and the many things they hold within them.