Page 72 of A Coffee Away

Laughter and joy embrace me.

The man beside me squeezes my hand, then leans close to my ear. “I love you, baby. I can’t wait to get you home and make use of those.” He tilts his head toward the small bag full of lubricant packets.

His rough yet caring voice sends shivers down my spine. My pulse rises as my heart bangs against my chest.

Desire, deep and raw, runs through my body and to my cock.

I woke, startled, with a hard-on that was impossible to ignore. “Fuck.” I grabbed my shaft and touched myself, closing my eyes as I replayed his sensual voice that was full of want.

I craved him. His touch. His cock inside me.

I grabbed some lubricant from my nightstand and squeezed it over my hard member, then stroked it furiously.

“Fuck!” I said to my empty apartment as I imagined him sucking me dry, then I grabbed my vibrator and greased it. Legs open and hips up, I pushed it inside and gasped. “Fuck me!”

Hand on my dick and dildo up my ass, I pumped harder, imagining this mysterious man inside me. The sense of losing myself took over me in no time.

“Can I come?” I asked the empty room and wondered if I was going crazy. But something deep within me told me I needed his permission.

“Come for me, baby,” a phantom voice as real as the air entering my lungs ordered.

Desire coursed through my veins. Rough. Demanding. Fucking sexy as hell.

“Fuck!” Thick cum covered my chest and hands as I obeyed. My cock pulsed, my ass tightening as if it was milking a real dick.

Two months ago, as soon as I moved into my new apartment, I fucked myself. I hadn’t been with a man yet that I remembered, but these dreams sparked a memory that I had been with someone. Him.

This man, the one who haunted my dreams, was as real as anyone else.

Where are you?

Half a year since I woke and still nothing. Only dreams.

According to Mom, I’d lost eight months of memories from before my accident, which, added to the three I was unconscious, was almost a year.

After four months of therapy, my parents helped me move into this new space. White walls with no sense of home surrounded me. No pictures. No sign of my past. Nothing called to me except for my art.

It didn’t feel like a home should—warm, cozy, endearing.

Not long after I woke from my coma, I asked my mother about the time lost.

Her eyes glazed, and her hands trembled. “You were so happy,” she said before Dad interrupted her.

He always changed the topic, and as time passed, I stopped asking.

During one of their visits, they opened my sketchbook. It was full of my art. I’d bought it and drawn whatever came to mind. Not long after, Mom filled my apartment with canvases and art materials so I’d be happy. And I was, but something was missing.

The canvases around me were filled with color and something else: a man. He was always there. In a corner. At the center of the piece. Sometimes just a hand or a shadow but never a face.

It was him.

My doctor kept telling me that things would come back to me naturally, but it was hard. I wanted to remember him. I needed to. Or I’d go crazy.

I wiped my hands and grabbed my poetry booklet. I turned the pages to my favorite poem, “I Forgot to Remember.” This one sparked something within me. I held it up, and a bookmark fell out. It was the same one I stuck in the last page when I found it.

I picked it up.

“A Coffee Away” was written around a circle surrounding a hand with a cup of warm coffee. The o in the word coffee was a heart made out of two coffee beans.