Caffeine for a Marine

F.B. detested Starbucks.

Not because of the clientele (mostly preppie clones and businessmen and women, cool and briskly efficient, even when placing their coffee orders) or because of the décor (early blah was how F.B.’s sister, an interior designer, described it), or even because the bulk of their attendants were wet-behind-the-ears college kids who reminded him of green recruits.

It was because of the smell.

The hearty aroma of fresh-perked coffee permeated every inch, every napkin, every molecule of the shop. He could smell it as soon as he pulled his Hummer into a parking space out front and opened the door, and it only grew stronger and more potent with each step he’d taken toward the shop’s entrance.

F.B. had been caffeine-free for over a year and yet the aroma of coffee still made him salivate like Pavlov’s dog.

His body’s reaction made him feel weak, and that was why he detested Starbucks, the demi-god of all coffee shops.

Ex-Marines did not tremble simply because they were within sniffing range of a tall low-fat latte.

He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to ignore the enticing smell and the tempting hiss and sputter of the steaming foam from the machines as they spat out orders, F.B. contortioned his six-foot, two-inch frame into one of the tiny, blonde wood chairs, stuffing his legs under the kindergarten-sized table.

Honestly, who designed these places? The Lollipop Guild of Munchkinland? F.B. seriously doubted that even Toto could sit in one of those chairs and actually be comfortable in it. His own Dobies would use it as a chew toy. The chair added insult to injury by creaking when he shifted his weight, and he growled, low in his chest.

Why he’d ever agreed to meet his date in this den of caffeine iniquity was beyond his reasoning. He must have been temporarily Section Eight. That was the only explanation. Normally, he’d have agreed to meet at one of the off-base bars frequented by former soldiers like himself, such as the Peacekeeper - someplace dark, loud, and comfortingly Marine.

A voice called his attention from his internal dialogue. Looking up, he found himself staring at Matt, his date.

Suddenly, F.B. remembered why he’d agreed to meet Matt at Starbucks.

For a guy who looked like Matt, F.B. would have met him stark naked in Times Square in the middle of the fucking blizzard, if that’s what he'd asked.