Page 30 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

A bearded homeless man passing us on the street pauses and does a double-take. I try to wave at him, but I’m holding topokki on a stick so I just end up waving the food in his general direction.

He gives me a look and walks away.

“Scratch that…” Fletcher takes another bite of food. “I’m probably the first man in the history of mankind to get aroused by a hunk of metal.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that. Not that I’ve done it—but I’m sure someone has.”

Fletcher grins. “Okay, what about a hunk of metal that belongs in a coffee shop?”

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that, either. You really gotta find a girlfriend, man. Someone sweet.”

“Says the guy who hasn’t had a girl since Veronica. How long ago was that? Two years?”

“Three. I’m waiting for the one. My soulmate…” I stare up at the sky and smile as the word makes my insides warm. “Besides, I’m not the one who gets turned on by a hunk of junk.”

“Junk? I dare you to say that again!” Fletcher opens his mouth wide to show off his teeth—and his unchewed food. It’s the possum equivalent of a glove slap across the face.

“Whoa, man. I’m not judging.” I raise my hands defensively in front of me, juice in one and topokki in the other. “Your kink isn’t my kink. I get it.”

Fletcher’s brows furrow and he purses his lips. “Don’t know why I reacted that way. Just got this sudden urge to defend her.”

“Her who?”

“Diva.”

“Who’s Diva?”

“The espresso machine, man. Keep up.”

I grin. “You named her.” I mean, dude named his PlayStation, so I’m not surprised. He’s got a whole machine fetish going.

“I didn’t name her. She had a name already.”

Of course! The machines at work all have names. The printer’s called Xerox, and the coffee maker’s Keurig, so why wouldn’t the espresso machine be Diva? “Hey, whatever floats your boat and warms your heart, man. Just don’t try to hump a coffee machine in public—or the one at home. Not that I drink coffee, but—”

“I wouldn’t do that! I… think?”

“Mmmhmm,” I say, unconvinced. “So why are we standing out here? Oh! Let me guess.” I’ve made a game of figuring out Fletcher’s chores, since there is no rhyme or reason to them. “Rating the smells of different street corners?”

Fletcher snorts. “Try again.”

“Catching window washers if they fall off buildings?”

“Not this week.”

I spot a cargo van with the words ‘Movin’ On’ painted on the side in big bold letters. “Helping someone move in exchange for free beer and pizza?”

“I only did that one time! And it was worth it. The pizza was gourmet and the beer was… a little off. They brewed it themselves, but it was still worth it!”

I make a face at the idea of slightly off beer. “Tasting juice?” I ask hopefully and raise my eyebrows at him—left, then right, then left, then both.

He chuckles and holds his topokki in his mouth while he untwists the bottle cap. Removing the topokki, he takes a swig of my concoction and swirls it around in his mouth. “Not bad. What is it?”

“My personal ABC blend.”

“Oh yeah.” Fletcher grins. “What was that again?”

“Apple, beets, and carrots.”