One day I woke up and there was a demon sitting at my table. He had made us fresh coffee and invited me to sit. I must admit I found it more than a bit peculiar when I woke up to that smell. I don’t usually have it together enough to have coffee prepared. I woke up and went out of my room yawning off the crust of sleep when I saw him sitting there, like a perfect gentleman reading the newspaper. The smell of ground coffee was stronger here, mixed with a light whiff of dirt, and the sludge of old coffee that’s unreachable in the machine. It smelled a bit like poop, I’d always thought.
But the demon was sitting there, his skin was white as snow, whiter than his yellow teeth, which seemed to have aesthetically been sawed to points. His eyes were split straight down the middle with black and red, the depth of his pupils just a bit deeper than mine. He wore a hat, and a suit, and it was perfectly buttoned up. He looked up at me with such a friendly grin and invited me to sit.
I looked at him and he looked at me and I wondered where on earth he’d gotten coffee from. Had he brought it himself? How did he get in? He’d even laid out cream and sugar. The fancy sugar, the brown stuff that’s crunchy. It was allayed in quite a way in dishes I didn’t recognize as mine. The white porcelain looked expensive, like the stuff you buy from pottery barn. I think.
He sipped his coffee and delight crossed his awful face and he seemed pleased with his current state. And my apartment was warm, and I felt good, and I decided it’d be nice to have company for a change. I wondered what could possibly be his name. And what kind of coffee is this, is it the fancy stuff, like the coffee that costs 14 dollars at the grocery store? Had this being from the depths of hell, holier than me, from a divine seed, had he ground up coffee beans and French pressed them for me? Was that cream fresh cream in it’s beautiful ivory boat. Was that silver real silver and my was this the high life all over a single cup of coffee?
I felt my brain buzzing and melting into the coffee filled air and something sweet was wafting out from him too and I was feeling like I was in the presence of something great. What next?
I looked at him and I looked at me, with a few tatters here and there in my pajamas and said, “I’m a little underdressed don’t you think?”
The demon smiled with his horrible teeth and pointed to the seat next to him gesturing for me to join in coffee. I’m not sure now and I wasn’t sure then if I wanted one lump or two, cream or black. The demon made me a little nervous you see. I said “well thanks, this is truly a pleasure.” I felt as though the sun was up but I couldn’t see. The Demon stared at me.
“This weather we’re having its all so strange. Hot one day and cold the next.” He didn’t seem to care much for small talk. So, I sat there in silence and sipped my coffee. The demon stared at me, and I stared at him. I studied each inch of his awful face, and I wondered if where he was from, he was considered handsome. I decided that yes, he was a good-looking guy. Just maybe he needed some blush and bronzer to frame his eyes. Those cheekbones were shaped by the gods and should be treated as such.
And then, I realized my coffee was done. And the demon bowed his hand and slid out his chair. I wondered if there were biscuits or scones or muffins in Hell.
He held out his white hand that glistened in the light and continued to stare. I said hey why not and slid my palm into his and he led me out in my dusty pajamas into the abyss. And I just couldn’t help but think about breakfast.
About the Author
Taylor Mckinnon is a Black woman and writer based in Boston, Massachusetts. She has a lifelong interest in literature and has studied it in English, Latin, and Ancient Greek as an undergraduate and graduate student. She harbors a keen interest in all things horror and loves nature a lot even though she is allergic. Her poetry has been published in a gathering together, the Papeachu Review, the BLF Press Black Joy anthology, the Solstice Literary Magazine, Mystic Owl Magazine and several other journals.
About the Artist
Yasmine Essence Soria is a photographer and writer born and based in Chicago. She is a first-generation Mexican-Honduran-American woman aiming to pave her path in the world. She received a BA in Creative Writing with a Minor in Photography at Columbia College Chicago. She creates work that expresses the core aspects of her identity while concentrating on opening and forming new perspectives of the world. Her photo work has been published in Mystic Owl Magazine, Outlander Zine, and displayed in the For Women, By Women Gallery from 2022-2024. Follow her on Instagram @yasmine.essence.
