“Still steamed about that snowball, huh?”
“Now pay attention, Rookie. The requirements for making a good espresso can be summarized by the four M’s.”
“The four M’s. Check. Will this be on the written portion of the exam?”
“
“Check.”
I ran through the basics with him, then ground the espresso beans, dosed it into the portafilter, tamped it, clamped it, and asked, “You have whole milk in that fridge?”
“I’ll get it.”
I rinsed out the stainless steel pitcher and half filled it with cold milk. “You should really prepare your milk before you draw your espresso, so your shot doesn’t deteriorate. At the Blend we dump anything that stands over fifteen seconds.”
“Whoa, that’s a tough window.”
“Better to lose a twenty-five cent shot than a regular customer.”
Bruce nodded. “I feel that way in my business, too. I’d say ‘Quality Is Job One’ but somebody in motor city stole my motto.”
“Fancy that.” I laughed. “I only wish I could clone your attitude for a few members of my part-time staff. Sometimes they can be hard to motivate.”
“Tell me about it. Hey, I meant to tell you, I tried that trick you told me about on my downtown crew yesterday, and it worked like a charm.”
“Late workers come on time when you tell them to be there a half hour earlier than you need them. I use that on Esther all the time.”
He laughed. “Okay, so how about some more tips for me — I’m very receptive.
The tone was suggestive, but I stayed cool. “Let’s do the milk,” I said, redirecting my attention. “When you’re just steaming milk — for a latte, for example — then you want to place the wand’s nozzle close to the bottom of the pitcher.”
“I see.”
Bruce’s eyes were on me so intensely, I felt a little flustered all of a sudden. “For a cappuccino, however, you want to do more than steam. You want to create an angelic cloud of froth, which means you need to add air, so you want to place the tip of the nozzle just beneath the surface of the milk and gradually lower the steaming pitcher as the foam grows.”
“Go ahead and show me,” said Bruce.
I did, filling the pitcher halfway with whole milk, clearing the steam valve, then placing the nozzle inside the container.
“Rookie baristas think it looks cool to move the container all over the place,” I explained. “Up and down and round and round — but that’s not the way to do it.”
Bruce stepped up behind me. “Wait. I want to get this straight. Let’s go over it again.”
“Which part?” I swallowed, trying not to let the heat of his body affect me, which was about as easy as trying to keep an ice cube from melting on the surface of the sun.
He placed his hands on the hips of my little plaid skirt, gently but insistently pulling me against him. “Up and down? And round and round?
Slowly, he moved my hips with his.
“Uh, not when it comes to foaming milk. No. You just want to lower the pitcher slowly as the foam builds. That’s why you only fill the pitcher halfway — to leave room for the foam to grow.”
“Room for growth?” he said, his hands still moving my hips with his. “And round and round and up and down?”
“No,” I said softly, “you don’t want to do that. It gives you an inferior product. Overly aerated foam with big short-lived bubbles and lousy texture.”
“I’m hearing you. What else do I need to know?” I felt his mouth on my hair, gently inhaling, then kissing and caressing my neck.
“Ah, let’s see…” Still trying to stay in control, and barely managing, I licked my lips and cleared my throat. “The milk shouldn’t spurt or sputter, either, but should sort of roll under the tip of the wand. A gentle sucking sound is what you should hear — ”
“Say that again.”
“What?”
“What you just said.”
“A gentle sucking sound?”
I felt his mouth, warm against my ear. “Again.”
“Bruce…”
“Say it.”
I inhaled sharply when I felt his lips touch my earlobe.
“Gentle sucking sound,” I whispered.
He turned me in his arms. The kiss wasn’t gentle, it was full of heat and hunger and I wasn’t stopping him.
When we came up for air, he reached behind me and hit a button on the machine. The little ON light faded out.
“Change your mind about that cappuccino?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I’m stimulated enough.”
I smiled as he covered my mouth with his again, and the world went away.
This time when we finished, he took my hand and pulled me gently back into the parlor and onto the soft futon in front of the fireplace. He kissed me deeply, then stretched out beside me.
“Are you okay with this?” he asked.
His eyes were kind and warm and waiting for my answer. “Better than okay,” I said, touching his cheek.
And then, for a long time, there were no more words.
Sixteen
The Mediterranean sun was a lemon in the sky. Brightness full of promise yet painful, too, like a squirt of citrus to the eye.
A young man played with a dog on the sand. He wore fraying combat fatigues cut into shorts and nothing else, the woven hemp choker appearing white as spun sugar against his deeply tanned chest.
The young woman was not a native of this Italian village. She was just visiting, staying with her father’s relatives so she could study art history for the summer. One week before, she’d been ogling the works of Michaelangelo in Rome, and she looked at this romping man the same way — like a sculpted statue come to life.
She admired how his chiseled calf and thigh muscles contracted and relaxed as he ran along the sand. How his flexing bicep flung a Frisbee into the surf over and over again for a happy, excited dog to fetch. She found it mesmerizing, and, at the time, had no way of knowing this was simply a “rest day” for the young man — a brief break from his typically more strenuous pursuits of bicycle racing, wind surfing, rock climbing, and cliff diving.
She didn’t know his name, had never been introduced to him or his family, and, despite her admiration of him, or maybe because of it, she kept walking.
It was the big black mixed Lab that for some reason came right for her. Probably the heavily perfumed shampoo she’d bought in the village, which gave off a strong lavender scent, most likely the same scent as
