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There is a coffee shop in town where everything is coated in black paint. The walls, the floor, the chairs, the mugs. The only thing that stands out is the creamer mixed in everyone’s coffee. Weird white flowers hovering in midair. That and the gleaming white teeth of the patrons and employees who frequent the exclusive establishment. My wife and I visited the coffee shop on a Wednesday at two p.m. We had nothing else going on. We dressed all in black and slipped black leather gloves over our soft and milky hands. We stopped at Target on the way there and bought matte-black ski-masks to cover our faces and necks. The coffee shop was the hottest place in town. It was called The Black Hole. The most powerful and attractive people got their coffee there for free. My wife didn’t have to pay. They charged me a thousand dollars just to get in. We ordered our coffee black. A long knife sat in the center of our table. Shining black paint sheathed the sharp steel blade. My wife picked up the knife and took off one of my gloves. She guided my hand inside her black underwear. She pressed the knife to the soft flesh of her neck and freed her free hand from her glove. She slid her fingers into the warm cavern of my decaying black boxers. She pressed her eyes closed and screamed in transcendent ecstasy.
