This is what it comes to, he said. Black coffee. Unable to afford cream, poured a cup. Used to get the fancy stuff; Irish cream, cinnamon, and French vanilla. Now, it’s just black coffee. And, it’s cheap coffee. Bought it on special at the dollar store, the man said to his overnight guest. She smiled.

It’s OK, she told him. I like my coffee black. Like it strong, she ran her fingers through her gray hair.

I’m learning to adjust, he laughed.

So, you’re a writer. What kind of stories do you write?

Short fiction. I’m actually nothing.  Just a guy who has to get things off his chest. I write because I have to, he slurped his coffee. Besides, it’s no longer about writing in America anymore. It’s about self-promotion.  Feeding the ego. Nobody really has anything to say except, look at me.

That’s rather cynical.

Stick around, kid. It gets worse. I write short pieces every day. Have been for the last nine years. It keeps me sane. Put out a few books. Some money, not much. This is not a get rich business.  You wanna make money? Sell insurance, they laughed.

I see. I have a romantic poet on my hands. Beats salesmen. Talk about self-absorbed.  And they always have gold bracelets on their wrist. Gawdy necklaces. Class rings, she smirked.

I get that. Always trying to impress; very American.  Selling yourself.  Whatever that means. Fucking Dale Carnegie.

They looked at one another. Drank their coffee. Put on some Miles Davis. And went back to bed.