You smile at me with your pen poised over your little pad and ask me what I would like -- "What would you like?" -- as though I could give you my honest list, and you would dutifully and cheerfully transcribe it, rip out the page and place it on the counter, so that the fry cook might read my order of "You, with light on the side."

As for what kind of light, I’m not too particular: sunlight, moonlight, starlight, firelight, lights of glinting pupils, of midnight computer screens, of lightning light.

Or even cruel, neon light. Like I said, I’m not particular. You can choose for me. I trust you; do you remember when you told me I should try the chicken, even though I don’t like chicken?

The only non-negotiable is you.

But I know that isn’t what you mean by "what would you like." You want me to tell you that I’d like some dirty brown potion -- imported, because the beans won’t grow in this climate -- with a splash of milk long divorced from its home udder.

And so I comply.

You: What would you like?

Me: Just coffee.