Other barristas claim better things to do between twilight’s mocha, full espresso dark.
Customers drift in, yawning, grouchy after naps. Awakening, they flirt and kiss, sealing later-night plans. They order lattes from me.
“Foam?” I ask each one.
If yes, my favorite part begins. I paint arched necks with whipped cream. Sculpt the triangle where blood beats. Swirl white-caps. Sweeten to taste.
Cherry tongues lap delicately. Needle fangs punch. Red and dairy mix. Guests grow pink boas at the throat. Crotches quiver as they sip.
My throat drains every vampire’s member, my lips a milky O.