Ain't Goin’ Out

I immediately look for a weapon and notice a kitchenette to my right. Grabbing the only thing immediately visible, I turn with half a carafe of steaming coffee, hesitant to waste the precious liquid, even in self defense.

“Whoa, Lady. I thought you was a blood sucka, what you doin’ with da coffee?”

“I was going to spill it on you if you didn't unlock da door,” I say in bad Ebonics.

“Na, don’ spill da coffee. Here, have a drag,” he says, holding out his joint.

“I'm serious, let me out.”

“No can do, Boss Lady, don't got da key.”

“Hruugha,” I growl in frustration. “So, what are you, my guard?”

“Nah, jus’ some unlucky nigga that strayed inta da wrong part of town.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. It's possible my captors put him here as a convenient blood source, but I remained suspicious.

“Listen, Boss Lady, would you put da coffee down or pour it fo us?”

Still not convinced, my eyes wander to the contents of the glass carafe, swishing around like liquid ambrosia. “Fine,” I say and sidestep into the kitchenette, keeping him in the corner of my eye.

Opening the cabinets, I find a supply of red Dixie Cups sufficient to supply a college fraternity and pour the coffee for the two of us. Setting the carafe down, I walk back to the couch where the man has graciously scooped to the side, leaving me room to sit.