Coffee Talk

One

Angela wrapped her winter jacket tighter around herself as she glanced up at the sign above the door of the shop. She let out a dramatic sigh.

Cafe Cuervo Negro. The Black Crow Cafe.

She couldn't help but shake her head. It was likely the most non-festive location in town during the holiday season, though she did give the owners credit for their attempts to the dismal décor festive. Santa hats on their taxidermized crows and rows of multicolored lights gave the otherwise red and black interior a somewhat jolly glow. The heavy metal covers of seasonal favorites piping through the speakers were an added perk.

Angela shook her head as she stood in line to order her drink. If nothing else, Delilah had always been one for theatrics, and shame on Angela for agreeing to meet her confidante at her bistro of choice. She was more than happy remaining home, sipping on a steaming mug of home-brewed loose-leaf of her own design while watching the snowfall from the comfort of her own living room. But no, not this time. It was Delilah's weekend. Therefore, Angela had no choice but to swallow her pride—and extremely overpriced beverages—and meet her colleague in her own domain.

Searching around the small café, she sought out her colleague. There she was, sitting in a corner table dressed for the club rather than a casual friendly encounter. Delilah's black corset accentuated her already perfect form, worn over tight black leggings and red stiletto heels. Her dark hair, a harsh comparison to Angela's lighter features, was piled atop her head in a haphazard mound of curls and combs.

She smiled lightly as her arrival finally caught Delilah's attention. "That's what you decided to wear? I thought you weren't working today," Angela muttered by way of greeting as she placed her steaming mug on the table before shrugging off her heavy coat and draping it on the back of her chair.

"Angela, my dear, I am always working." Delilah grinned with lips as dark as the coffee shop's motif.

With another sigh, Angela took a seat across from her acquaintance, straightening her white pencil skirt and brushing her straight, blonde hair over her shoulder. A casual glance at her surroundings showed that they were not alone in the cafe despite the snow outside—not by a long shot, and she knew Delilah would be in a mood tonight because of it.

"That one," Delilah started as soon as Angela was in her seat. Following her friend's gaze, she lay her eyes on a rather attractive young man in a three-piece suit, leg crossed over his knee as he sipped on an espresso while he read the daily paper.

"I don't think so," Angela challenged, but Delilah's eyes were already on fire.

"Three people: his wife and two co-workers."

"How?" Angela whispered, her eyes wide. She hated the way Delilah could always surprise her, no matter how many times they played this game of hers. Somehow, someway, she was always able to determine the darkness in someone's soul merely by the coffee they drank. She found it amusing, but Angela felt it was somewhat morbid, especially when most of the targets, by her estimation at least, were blatantly murderers living like there was nothing wrong with them. For once, she would have preferred Delilah's depictions of these strangers to involve petty theft or forgery, but no—it was as if Delilah chose these places knowing the people who would frequent them.

"Cyanide." The tone of her response made it seem like it should have been obvious.

Even so, Angela's jaw dropped. "Why?"

"I'll let you know once I ask," Delilah mused, grinning devilishly. "After I take him home to Daddy."

Angela rolled her eyes, though the unease lingered. She never did ask Delilah what happened to her targets once she brought them to her father, and sometimes ignorance truly was bliss. Playing off the discomfort, she dragged her attention to a pair of young girls, no older than fifteen, sitting in the opposite corner, giggling over their large mugs of white chocolate mocha. "What about them?"