Black Coffee

“Oh, I’ve been doing, uh, this kind of work my whole life,” Trey said. He stirred his coffee. Pointlessly, since he took it black. “In the van at six in the morning with the old man, grabbing some coffee, I’d sit on the back tinkering with the mind co– uh. With the cable box. Watch the sun rise.”

“That sounds nice,” Meghan said, and meant it. She was really connecting with this blue collar guy. A union man, at least conceptually. And he was pretty cute.

“Yeah, I mean, if my Dad wasn’t working, he wasn’t alive, you know? The Customer Is Always Right! He’d say it out loud, all solemn,” Trey said. “Once we did ten, uh, um, houses, in one week. I couldn’t keep them straight, I kept getting their hair color confused. I mean… house… numbers.” He sipped his coffee.

“Where’s your Dad now?” Meghan, although she suspected the answer. A career of tragedy-driven personal essay work had trained her in certain ways.

“Yeah, Dad died,” Trey looked down, traced an upside-down B on the quartz, with coffee. A big one. “Few weeks ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” Meghan said, automatically. It all felt a little bit automatic, once Trey was inside. Once he was inside, he was a guest. As a guest she needed to take good care of him, because she was a good housewife. A very lonely, horny housewife. She needed to make him coffee, and then listen to everything he said, back bent, cleavage bubbling in front of his face.

“I knew something was wrong. We were doing an entire three-girl blonde-brunette-black trio with a harem hardwire.” He looked up, suddenly. “Those are, uh, wiring terms. Electrical work. Yeah. Anyway, Dad kept working all day, rubbing at his chest, we finally got the blowjob activation worked out, and he fell over dead.”

He sniffed. A male with feelings, Meghan hadn’t met one in a long time. Certainly not Austin, who had complained about ticket prices for the flight to his uncle’s funeral. She felt a sudden sting, a very unpleasant tingle. Of course, Austin was a great guy and a perfect husband. He’d probably show a little emotion when she blew him senseless, as soon as he walked through the door.

She put her hand on Trey’s. Callused and rough. Now the tingles were much better. There were a lot more of them, too.

“Anyway. Enough of my problems,” Trey said. “Best way to honor Dad is to get the job done. Customer is always blah blah blah. Believe me. I’ll start in your master’s bedroom.”

“Master’s bedroom,” Meghan echoed. His fingernails were worn down. Worry? Professional concern? Could she ask? “Can I help?”

“Oh!” Trey seemed surprised. “I know you’re busy. Right? Ironing and laundry? Is that today?”

No, she had to start patching things up with her colleagues– right? Not just spend her time on a vibrating, warm dryer. Rattling her thighs.

“I was actually going to get some baking done,” she said. “Would you like cookies?” Trey lit up, and she knew, from her head down to her pussy, that it was the right decision.

—

In the afternoon she threw away the better part of her wardrobe. Like, a lot of it.

It was Trey’s idea. Despite her increasingly frantic efforts she had not made very good cookies. It turned out there was an important difference between baking soda and baking powder. The cookies were burnt flat crisps. She’d nearly been in tears, presenting them to Trey. She’d cut the relatively unburnt middles out to serve.

“These are great,” he’d told her, with apparent sincerity.

“I fucked them up,” she confessed, as he went in for a second bite. She’d expected him to take the plate, from her hands, and then throw them like a discus out the open window. “They’re terrible. Don’t humor me.”

“No, no. Its not your fault. You don’t get this kind of backfill culinary knowledge until day three or four of your programming,” Trey said, crumbs on his beard. “I mean, what I’m saying is, I grew up with just my Dad and I. We never got real home cooking.”

Home cooking, and from her. Meghan had to go somewhere and sit, just to calm down. Her heart was racing. What was wrong with her? She had compared literary techniques in Iowa in front of men who called Cormac McCarthy “Cormac”.. She wielded redlines like a scalpel. She ate one of the remaining cookies, and then another, and then another. They didn’t actually taste that bad, just a bit chemical-ly. Her nipples ached against her bra.

“Meghan?” she practically ran back to her master’s bedroom. “Can you maybe do something with these?”

Her clothes were piled on the bed. “I had to get at the flooring in the closet,” Trey said. There were still bits of dough in his beard. “Maybe..?” Sex pillow was still piled on the bed. Had she even slept there, the past few days? Meghan was unsure.

“Sure! Absolutely!” Meghan picked up the first one. Pants. The second one was also pants. Dull blue or dark black, and, if not denim, a heavy cotton with all the grace and feminine flair of a tarp. Trey even seeing them was mortifying. “Let me get some trash bags real quick!” She shoved the first set in without even checking the pockets. It was bad enough they even had pockets – the whole set was from the worst of her college days, wearing man jeans like that struck some sort of blow.

After that it became sort of fun. A lot of fun, very enjoyable, especially once she moved operations to the living room, and the pleasant background hum of mid-afternoon porno. It was on Amateur. A clip show. The lighting and camera work were poor but the enthusiasm was inspiring. Real housewives – she assumed, anyway, from their plush butts – having real sex. Cooing as they backed onto cocks. The camera lovingly capturing the acreage of their bodies. Curvy bodies, with dimples at the hips, with fat fuckable butts.

Into the garbage bags went whole eras of her life. Grad school especially. She retained two date night outfits that were at least over the knee, a blood-red dress she’d never worn. It had been supposed to be threatening but was actually just slutty. Now that seemed — better. Hotter. For pants she kept one single pair of black dress pants that seemed nice and tight. In case she had to go visit a grave or whatever. Other than that it was the very few skirts, cute tops, and other somewhat sexy gear that had survived her unsexy career, unsexy life. She threw out every single blazer. They looked and felt disgusting.

“Going okay?” Trey said, stopping by.

“Sort of!” Meghan said. She’d switched outfits. Now she wore a pair of tan shorts from just after high school. The button didn’t fasten and the fabric strained both aft and on both sides. The outline of her panties was completely visible. She’d swapped in a blouse with all four buttons undone. It scooped practically to her stomach. “Good chance to see what still fits!”

“Careful with those curves,” Trey said. He blushed. “One of Dad’s sayings.” On screen a blonde with red lipstick moaned about needing dick.

Meghan found her voice. “I mean… ummm…” she rubbed at her hips. Where had all these curves come from? She’d always liked the pure functionality of her body. Meghan had felt a sense of distant pity for girls with overstuffed figures, sexualized with each wobbly step, men glancing along the arcs of their figures. Now, looking down, she could see the belling curve of two tits. This isn’t me! She thought, suddenly panicked.

A loud and messy orgasm on screen distracted her.

“Here, go through these next,” Trey plopped down her collected underpants and rolls of socks. The top one had a hole in the waistband. Pathetic.

“Sure! Can do!” Meghan chirped, and got to it. A brunette, on screen, kept flicking her eyes to the camera.