That spoon knocks around her cup like it's trying to break free, and she just keeps adding sugar. So much milk it looks like the floor tiles. I look up at the ceiling fan and it's barely moving. Never understood why they have that lowest setting. A quick look around and I see nine out of ten people fanning themselves with something or other. And it's not until I think how queer it is she's drinking coffee.
"It cools you down."
"I've never known coffee to do that," I say.
"You don't know a lot of things." I'd like to think she said that with a wink in her voice, so I'll say she did.
She goes on to tell me that the body works on cooling itself off when it gets hot. So, natch, you drink a hot cup of joe and the brain gets the signal. She says something about receptors. It all sounds queer to me, but she seems pretty certain.
"But this lemonade. I drink it, I can feel it going down, I can feel my insides getting colder as I drink."
"That's fine," she says. That's her way of saying I'm wrong. But how can I be wrong about what I feel? I look down at my lemonade, wishing it was a beer, thinking maybe it should be a coffee. She sounds so damn sure of herself. But maybe anybody would be this happy with that much sugar and that much milk. I bet that milk was ice cold. I bet that coffee is room temperature at best.
I turn my cup over and the waitress is there in seconds, filling it up with boiling hot java. I thread my finger into the little loop. She's looking at me from behind her mug, sipping and drinking, hardly putting it down, keeping it right in front of her. Is it hiding a smile?
I drink. Boy, it sure is hot.
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