How Do You Take It?

"How do you take it?" she asked.

I wanted to say, "Black." "I take my coffee black."

    Like that line from the movie Airplane. The one where the little girl says she likes her coffee black.  Like her men.

    Or like that hypnotizing Ella Fitzgerald jazz-blues number. Where she's feeling alone on a Monday: I'm feeling mighty lonesome/ Haven't slept a wink/ I walk the floor and watch the door/ And in between I drink.

    Or - pardoning the transition from soulful Music with a capital M to something else entirely - that bee-boppy Squeeze song.  Where he's wistful for those days of drinking coffee in bed. Black coffee, of course: With lips full of passion and coffee in bed.

    (Are all songs about black coffee about goodbyes?)

Or if I could tolerate bitterness better, I could cooly say, like Neil Gaiman, "Black as night, sweet as sin." 

    I thought about that. 

    

   That would be a pretty bad-ass order. 

   I would deliver it like Clint Eastwood. Intensely. With a gravely voice, squinting my eyes.  The Barista would be looking at me, and I'd gaze directly into her eyes. She'd just look away with a coy half-smile.

But I didn't say that.

Because, the truth is, I just don't take my coffee black.

I'm more of a light and sweet guy. Which - unfortunately for me - is not very tough sounding. But, I mean, what are you going to do? Drink bitter coffee?

"Light and sweet, please."