She peers into the crate. Her expression shifts. Curiosity replacing the usual wariness.
"This is cardamom."
"Yes."
"Real cardamom. Not the pre-ground stuff."
"Grinding it fresh is important. Changes the whole flavor profile." I'm talking too fast again. Can't help it. This is the part I know. The part I'm good at. "I was thinking we could do a spiced coffee. Maybe with honey. Cinnamon. Make it smell like winter markets."
Lacy picks up one of the pods. Turns it over in her fingers. Her nails are short, practical, unpolished. She crushes the pod slightly. Breathes in.
"That's gorgeous."
My breath hitches.
"I can show you," I offer. "How to make it. If you want."
She holds my gaze. Holds my gaze for three full seconds.
"Okay," she says. "Show me."
The coffee machinedefeats me immediately.
Not the concept. I understand heating water. Pressure. Extraction. The theoretical framework is sound.
The execution is catastrophic.
"No, you have to tamp it," Lacy says, watching me fumble with the portafilter. "Press down. Firm but not crushing."
I press.
Something crunches.
"That was crushing," she says.
"Sorry."
"Try again."
I do. This time I'm too gentle. The water flows through like I've made coffee-flavored water instead of actual espresso.
Lacy takes the portafilter from me. Her fingers brush mine. Just for a second.
I freeze.
She doesn't seem to notice. She's already dumping the grounds, refilling, demonstrating the proper tamping pressure with focused efficiency.
"See? Firm. Even. Then twist to lock it in."
I watch her hands. The competent certainty of the movement. The way her whole posture shifts into teaching mode.
"Your turn," she says, handing it back.
I try again. This time it works. The espresso flows dark and perfect into the small cup below.
"There," Lacy says, and she's almost smiling. "You can be taught."
"I'm very teachable."
