Bittersweet

The boys ordered the greatest hot drink ever meant for a glass: Vietnamese coffee. The base of ivory condensed milk. Th e top of so–brown–it’s–black chicory coffee. The boys marveled at the dichotomy.

Only one coffee shop in Philly offered their favorite. Posters and flyers covered nearly every wall. The latest single from the Red Caps, a remix of Hungry Like the Wolf, way overplayed, hung in the air.

Dault watched Jerrod tip his glass, the lip pale from steam. Doughy and pale, Jerrod didn’t like to break margins. He must have been the first kid to color within the lines. The sort that regretted spooning peanut butter from the jar first.

“Would you date a gingerbread man?” Dault asked. The distraction afforded him the chance to plunge a spoon into his own glass and stir.

“Being diabetic…” Jerrod’s forehead creased, making him doubly serious. “I have you anyways.”

Dault drank for several seconds to earn a murky mustache. Anything to make his boyfriend grin. It worked. “Someone made a cartoon of the fairy tale. Posted it on YouTube.” He wiped his lips clean with the back of his hand.

“That the one with a wolf?”

“Was a fox, not a wolf. Drink your coffee. Would you rather date a wolf or a gingerbread man?” Dault had often wondered what kissing a wolf would be like. Wolves kiss first and ask permission later. Or maybe never even ask permission.

“Are you dumping me so I can date make-believe people?”