In the story the main character writes a "Man Manifesto" dictating that she does not want an emo guy, a guy with a wife, or a guy that smells better than she does (she's been having problems recently). So now that she has goals and directives she begins wondering how she's ever going to achieve any of them. This is where the excerpt comes in:
I print out my manifesto and tack it up on the wall above my computer. I think about it for a while and realize that if I really mean it I ought to make it public. I take out the scotch tape and fix it to the outside of my bedroom door where my roommate can see it. I feel a little like Luther.
I tell myself not to worry: I’m not philosophizing; I’ve got one picked out. One with blue eyes, ocean blue eyes. One that lets his face get scruffy until he goes home to see his mother. This one doesn’t have a girlfriend.
He smells good. I know he does. But he’s subtle about it. Subtlety makes it all the better. A whiff of boy that I get when I’m in physical proximity. I want that around. Around me. While I’m doing daily tasks. Washing the dishes. While relaxing in front of the television. Not just when we’re at bars or kissing.
He makes bad jokes. Then immediately apologizes for making them. I laugh. I tell him it wasn’t as bad as he thinks. Sometimes they really are bad and laugh at him instead. He takes it well. Gathers up the hand that I use to swat him and runs his thumb over my fingers.
I want him in my life and I’m not certain how to get him there. How to get myself there. To get to the point where I’m sitting on the kitchen counter in his sparse but fairly clean apartment. Soft sunshine coming in through the window over the kitchen sink. Near the stove there’s a brown ring burned into the counter from a hot pan and a previous tenant. He’s never really noticed its existence. The kitchen’s clean, not sticky or grimy or molding so I don’t mind the burn mark either.
He’ll walk up to where I sit on the counter, laughing, smiling, coffee brewing a few feet away. No tired lines, no stories, no brush off. He won’t speak sex to me, or love or even chocolate. He’ll speak coffee to me. Bitter and bold, filling me with life. Starting with the aroma and not stopping until it’s caught up in all my senses. He’ll speak coffee. Sweet, delirious coffee.
To hell with boys with dirty tile floors or men with wives. Give me clean kitchens and coffee. Give me men who know how to speak in more than just guy or smart ass.
The story continues but my favorite part was always "speak coffee to me" and I swore up and down that if I ever opened a coffee shop that was what I'd name it. As I have no where near the capital to open a coffee shop I've used the name as the title of my blog on writing and the shorter version Speak Coffee as my SN. Perhaps it is representative of my wishful, daydreamish nature ... or maybe I just really, really, really like coffee.
