“Where are my five coffees?” “Gas station coffee? For a connoisseur like you? I wouldn’t dare.” Then he reached down, around the side of my front porch flowerpot with the petrified geraniums in it, and produced a warm Starbucks cup. I looked at it and held my breath. “That’s so thoughtful.” I raised my eyes to his. “But I can’t have caffeine this late.” He smiled. “I know. It’s decaf.”
