He pockets a cassette, we leave by the back door. I accept an invitation back to his place for coffee. He turns down the MTV and turns up the music he lifted from the store. He arrives from the kitchen bearing identifical mugs of French roast. I don't want a boyfriend, I say.
Cold hands find a hearth.
Lips used more to provocation than spit find moisture in the nonverbal. He says I taste like coffee. I've heard it before. He likes the taste. He takes the taste away.