They like their coffee like they like their ex-boyfriends: bitter.
Half-drunk on well-creamed gas station coffee and the exhilarating loneliness of a freeway in nighttime.
We kiss. Her hands are freezing on my face, and she tastes like coffee and the smell of the onion is still stuck in my nose, and my lips are all dry from the endless winter. And it's awesome.
He liked the idea of coffee quite a lot—a warm drink that gave you energy and had been for centuries associated with sophisticates and intellectuals. But coffee itself tasted to him like caffeinated stomach bile.
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