Wednesday

She likes her men tall and dark, just like her coffee. Every morning she wakes up, not looking at the naked body beside her, and walks into her kitchen to grab the mug of coffee that's been set to brew at six A.M.

She'll sit on her balcony and look out at the fog over the skyline, sipping her coffee no matter how badly her tongue burns. She likes how the sun is never shining.

Usually her man will come out and find her, trying to sit down next to her in only his boxers. Over time, she's made sure that there is only one chair on her balcony. And when she doesn't speak, he will usually get the hint and leave, letting her alone with only her coffee and the fog for company. She likes it that way.

Her world is perfectly ordered, even the caprices of nights drunk off wine and too much cologne. She makes sure to only go for the men in pinstriped suits on Fridays – she can afford some arrogance when she needs not work the next day.

But she will still wake at six A.M. to drink her coffee on the balcony.

She frequents clubs and upscale bars – anywhere that a swish of red silk is appreciated over too much tanned skin exploding out of what is technically called a shirt. The men she meets are desperate but don't know how to show it, so they act nonchalant and are easily lured in by her half-smile and teasing skin fading into red silk.

She laughs inwardly, because they never know how to react when she pushes them away in the morning. Are they still so drunk that they think she will want them to stay?

Her tongue has become calloused, so the hot coffee doesn't hurt her anymore. She likes being able to drink it immediately, but sometimes she misses savoring the taste. The flavor comes through best in that hard-to-attain middle phase of coffee cooling.

After her coffee is but a taste on her calloused tongue, she stands up and goes inside to shower off the remains of last night. The cleansing used to feel so good, but she has become so accustomed to it that she can barely tell the difference, except that she now smells of Ocean Mist instead of sex.

She pulls on dress slacks and a blouse and heads to work, right at seven-thirty. On Wednesday, she lets herself buy a latte during lunch break. She can never have too much coffee. Sometimes she wonders if she runs on coffee and semen.

She hopes not.

But still, she cannot stop her nightly seduction and her morning coffee.

The cashier at the coffee shop is running slowly, taking his time to chat with the man as he places his order. She taps her foot, clad in simple loafers instead of the Italian pumps that she will wear tonight.

Behind her, there is a young man and he is laughing. She turns around to tell him to stop and give him a firm glare, but she sees his fur-lined maroon trench coat and stops.

He can only be in his early twenties and should probably be in college. He stands as if he is superior to God. She would resent that if she were not a blasphemer.

"Oh, hello," he says. He has black hair and dark eyes.

She nods and turns around. She doesn't need to talk to this man. He is not in her schedule.

"You know, if you wait in this line any longer, you'll be in danger of being off-schedule, since there'll be an accident on Fifth and Main in five minutes."

She tunes him out and finally orders her coffee. She is walking down the sidewalk to her office, sipping her latte, when she casts a glance to her left and sees a red Mustang, top down, collide with a tour bus covered in tacky decals advertising "Authentic Wild West Rodeo Show" and girls in impractically skimpy cowgirl attire.

Just beyond the overpowering sound of the crash, the young man is standing on the other side of the street. His hands are shoved into his coat pockets and he is smiling at her.

She wonders if she should try to cross the street so she can invite him home for the night, but then she remembers that on Wednesdays she only fucks men who know nothing.