Page 48 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

“Quiet down, Keurig,” I say as I sit across from her. “I didn’t go through this much trouble to bring you here just to throw you back out.”

I wouldn’t actually throw her back out. Something about this sassy pretentious Black and Decker draws me in like a… well… a caffeine addict to a coffee machine. But I get the feeling this is about more than my love of artisan roasted espresso. It also goes far beyond my need to right my wrongs and set all the Movin’ On victims free.

“Once I eat, we’ll find a medium to match you with,” I tell her. “You’ll be back to your old body-hopping self in no time.”

She’s quiet for a moment, which is a first. Stranger still, I kind of miss her voice. Then she starts to shout, “Fuck you! You think I’m some body thief?”

“Body borrower,” I correct.

I’m not one of those damn supposedly ‘moral’ body hoppers who stay in one body until it’s on its deathbed… or until they go insane from lack of body hopping. Fucking stuck-up cranks are full of shit anyway. How is it better to take over someone’s life until they die than it is to borrow a body for a day or two?

“Thief,” she snaps.

I fucking hope she isn’t one of them. She doesn’t seem like a nut, despite all her shouting. But sometimes those moralists pass as reasonable people until you get to know them. Can’t trust those fuckers, or they ruin your entire life and everyone else’s with it.

There is one other possibility, though. “Were you born a body hopper?”

“Were you?” she fires back.

“No, but if you were, and your body’s alive and well, we’ll track it down. But if you don’t have a body of your own, drop the ‘ooh, body hopping is so evil’ bullshit.”

“Sure, when you drop the whole ‘ooh, look at me, I’m an asshole’ bullshit.”

She doesn’t mention a body, and I wonder if she even remembers. Those poor Movin’ On victims all come back a little messed up. Evelyn still wakes up screaming and shouting things about demons, and sometimes when I pass by Petey’s room I catch the poor granola bar-trapped soul sobbing.

This confused amnesia situation Starbucks has going on doesn’t really surprise me, but it does remind me to be patient.

“Look—” I start to say. Janet sticks her head out of the kitchen and interrupts.

“Order up!” she says.

“Help, I’ve been kidnapped!” Tassimo shouts.

I roll my eyes.

“No, sweetie,” Janet says. “We’re going to help you.”

“Ah, fuck, another kidnapper,” Keurig cries.

I mean, what did I expect? “You’re getting a little predictable, Balzac’s.”

“What did you call me, dick head?” she snaps.

“It’s a coffee company.” She’s definitely not local if she doesn’t know that.

“Oh, that’s fine then.” She snickers, “You’re still a dickhead though.”

I can’t help but laugh, though I’ve never laughed about being called a dickhead before.

Janet pushes a cart with a plate of food and tumbler of whiskey up to the table. “Here’s your Pad Thai, Trev.” She turns to Tim Horton’s. “Sorry I don’t have anything for you, sweetie.”

She twists her knobs. “I’m used to it.”

“Sad fucking thing to be used to,” I tell her.

“Word.” She twists her knobs again.

I wish I knew her well enough to understand what that meant. Scratch that, I wish she had a face, so I could see if she was frowning or smiling. So I could look into her eyes and… what the fuck? I start to scowl.