Rosie couldn’t decide which coffee. She and Falls had met at one of the new specialty coffee cafes. The menu contained over thirty types of brew. Falls said: ‘Good Lord, I suppose instant is out of the question.’
‘Shh, don’t think such heresy, the windows will crack in protest.’
Falls took another pan of the list, then said: ‘OK, I’ll have the double latte.’
‘What?’
‘I know the names from the movies.’
‘Mmm, sounds weak. I’ll have the Seattle Slam.’ They laughed.
Rosie said: ‘So, girl. Tell all, can you?’
Falls giggled, said: ‘If I tell you he kisses the neck…
‘Uh-huh.’
‘… right below the hairline.’
‘Oh God, a prince.’
‘And holds you after.’
‘He is unique, beyond prince.’
The coffee came and Falls sampled it, said: ‘Yeah, it’s instant with froth.’ Then she leaned closer, added: ‘You know why I did, like, on the first date?’
‘’Cos you’re a wanton cow.’
‘That too. But when we came out of the dance, I felt faint.’
‘Lust, girl.’
‘And I sat on the pavement.’
Rosie made a face as she tasted her drink, telling Falls to continue.
‘Before I could, he whipped off his jacket and laid it on the path.’
‘So you sat on it and later you sat on his face.’
They roared, shamefully delighted, warmly scandalised. Rosie said: ‘Taste this,’ and pushed the slam across. Falls did, said: ‘It’s got booze in there, check the menu.’
Sure enough, in the small print, near illegible, was: ‘Pure Colombian beans, double hit of espresso, hint of Cointreau.’ Falls said: ‘I know what the Cointreau’s hinting.’
‘What’s that, then?’
‘Get bladdered. Did I tell you I dreamed of my dad?’
Later, wired on slammers, hopping on espresso, Falls showed her Eddie Dillon’s poem.
‘He wrote a poem for you?’
‘Yes.’ (shyly)
‘Is it any good?’
‘Who cares? ’Cos it’s for me, it’s brilliant.’
‘Give it here, girl!’
She did.