It was early. The day was foggy. The day was actually completely clear. Hot, a little too hot. Her legs stuck to the leather seat in the car. It was hot. She needed to get rid of the fog. Coffee. A muffin. While the espresso poured into the tiny glasses on the other side of the counter she couldn’t help but think about what it would be like to be with him, right then. She couldn’t help but think of the last time they got close. It was passionate in a primitive sort of way. It would slow, it would speed, it would feel good, it would hurt. The drip, drip, drip of the last few sips of esspresso splashed into the frothy hot liquid in the small cups. It over flowed a little, and slowly slid over the side of the glass. The body of the shot moving from top to bottom, the caffine folding into itself, while the milk frothed. It would be thick, it would be hot, it would be perfect. ”Two-seventy-five.” The drips, making her legs shake. ”Ma’am?” The fog was gone. She paid, legs met leather, and she drove. The espresso burned her tongue.
A man goes out on the beach and sees that it is covered with starfish that have washed up in the tide. A little boy is walking along, picking them up and throwing them back into the water. “What are you doing, son?” the man asks. “You see how many starfish there are? You’ll never make a difference.” The boy paused thoughtfully, and picked up another starfish and threw it into the ocean. “It sure made a difference to that one,” he said.