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The Fuel

The Espresso Duel

My eyes throbbed from sobbing after a sip of my half-calf Americano with skim milk at Trident Bookstore in Boulder. Alone at the back corner with my head down I mumbled crazy to myself with my eyes swollen red. Post-traumatic-stress-disorder symptoms often comes when I have inspirations and when I felt happy from a good day. Jesus, The Baristo, came to my table and held my shoulder. He asked, "Did I make the Americano too strong?" I looked into his eyes and said to him, "Are you trying to trick me? To go into Hell?" I wiped my tears with my left hand as my right was covered with snot mucus from my nostrils. "You drank some of the crushed Espresso Beans that was on the bottom of the machine. I need to clean that thing," said Jesus. I threw the cup at his face, and yelled, "You're a nasty coffee maker. Why did you give me suicidal ideations?!" I hated Jesus. Jesus wept. He took my hands and kissed them, then said, "I could make it all go away. But you have to stop drinking water."




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