Holly Farris

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.

gory cappucino

Holly Farris

Talk about jobs. I scrub the stain of death at home out of houses.

Today’s is a suicide, not murder: no broken glass. Espresso cups and saucers filigreed in fine gold script study me from the shelf where they've fuzzed with dust forever.

I sanitize the kitchen where it happened. The house welcomes without biohazard. Resting on a last upside-down NoTrace bucket in the living room, I feel the emptiness of each tiny cup. I’m jealous of their anchoring saucers.

It’s simple for you I say when I stand up to leave. People don’t always stay in sets.

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