A brown box is waiting in the hallway when Heather returns home from work. Did I buy something recently? she wonders. It seems every time she sits down with the laptop something new shows up. Her eyes shift as she considers what it could be. She remembers she’d been eyeing a clitoral massager recently.
She slices through the black and blue tape with her house key and stares down at a french press, vaguely remembering her reason behind its purchase.
She’d thought having one would make her seem more refined and interesting. After all, how many coffee snobs did she know who were boring and led dull lives? She recalls a random conversation she and Rachel had with a pink-haired, gender-fluid hippie at an indie authors convention in Seattle who claimed they never went to Starbucks because, capitalism. She’d nodded along in agreeance, not having fully understood what was being said.
After watching a couple YouTube videos, Heather grinds the whole beans in the grinder she’d purchased along with the press. She allows the coffee to blossom, gently stirring it with the accompanied wooden spoon. Was she doing it right? Could she join in on these conversations now? She looks at the coffee she’d purchased: Java Planet USDA Organic Peru. Yes, that sounds edgy enough.
Heather frowns slightly as she adds a splash of half&half and a generous pour of Starbucks Pumpkin Spice creamer, finishing it off with a heavy-handed helping of canned whipped cream. She’ll leave these additions out from her future intellectual coffee conversations, she decides.
Heather opens the Pandora app, and Concrete from Crystal Castles blasts out at her. It reminds her of Rachel’s terrible Industrial music. Rachel needs to get her own account so she stops polluting my algorithm.
After taking a satisfying gulp of her coffee, she braces herself to address the upsetting texts from Andrew. He isn’t showing the kind of interest in her she’d expected after what she sacrificed for him. He keeps asking about Rachel, wanting to know if something between them could be arranged again.
It was kinky having you there watching me deflower your friend.
Is he being serious or just playing around? What’s so good about Rachel anyway? She twirls a strand of frazzled, brassy hair around her finger. Can’t he see how hard I’m working for him? She types and sends a response.
Rachel is a lesbian.
Wow, so I fucked a lesbian? That’s pretty hot. Can you arrange another round?
I doubt it.
Just tell her you’ll eat her muff while I take her ass or something. It shouldn’t be hard for you, being a miracle worker and all. I thought we had a deal.
She sips her coffee. The mere thought of Rachel being splayed open and taking him again torments her. It was already bad enough that she relived it in her mind’s eye every night as it robbed her from sleep. The entire thing had been a mistake.
Rachel continues to assure her almost everyday that she didn’t like it, and she has no desire to talk about the experience, but Heather can’t stop obsessing over it. She’s lying. She has to be. That’s why she always blows the questions off—can’t handle the heat.
She finishes off her coffee and stares at the painting of a sad, obese cat on a couch. Crying in Renaissance, it’s called. Just one of many of Rachel’s idiotic purchases. Is that what Andrew wants? A multi-million dollar home decorated with lowbrow art? Cats on couches and pigs in black-rimmed glasses?
She closes her eyes and cradles her face in her hands. He said Rachel is the tightest he’s ever had, so if she were to be stretched out, she’d lose her appeal. All I have to do is make her undesirable somehow.
Do you think Rachel will let me fuck her ass?
Heather grits her teeth and ignores the question. Perhaps he needs a refresher of what he had with her.
Rachel has 2 work some extra hours this weekend 2 cover rent, so she won’t be here. I’m available tho.
For an ass reaming?
She rolls her eyes, frowning. Sacrifices will have to be made, she decides.