The barista calls out an Oat Milk Latte for God. Hot, not iced.
From behind the handoff plane, the teenager with angel bites through his lip shifts his weight on the soles of his Converse. Covered in doodles and stains, the rubber heels are marked with flames rising into the canvas.
No one claims the handcrafted beverage.
Between the curtain of his long bangs, I can see in the barista’s eyes he thinks the name on the cup is fake. Something bored customers say at the register for laughs. Like Tom Cruise, Michael Jordan, Cher. But the joke is on him, because while the Goddess of Pop may be too busy to meet me for a coffee, God is coming.
He’s just late.
“They shouldn’t let dropouts run places like this,” Satan says, bouncing his leg against the faux leather chair. “There’s no way this is decaf.”
We’ve arranged the corporate furniture in a triangle, the way we always do.
The Devil squirms and sips on something Venti-sized, full to the brim with cubes. He shakes melting ice around plastic, adding to the orchestra of whole beans being ground, processed sandwiches being digested, childhood dreams being forgotten.
People like to call Satan the Prince of Darkness. As if he’s royalty, a celebrity, someone you’d see on the red carpet at the Golden Globes wearing shiny black leather. What the public doesn’t know is that he’s actually a terrible conversationalist.
All shaky hands and eyeing the pastries in the glass case, it’s doubtful more sugar is what Lucifer needs but we’re both trying to fill the time before our friend arrives.
The buffer between us.
The reason we keep coming here.
“I may get another cake pop,” Satan says. He’s watching the barista now too, the way the kid is preparing to dump God’s Grande Latte into the stainless steel sink.
I’m just trying to keep a dialogue going when I ask, “The chocolate or pink with rainbow sprinkles?”
The Devil smirks. “Always rainbow sprinkles.”
Sometimes I wonder if God leaves us alone on purpose. If his divine plan is our weekly meetings turning to dates. Maybe I need to start asking Satan more questions. See what God thinks could blossom between us.
Perhaps The Devil isn’t boring, just full of anxiety.
Vanilla cake has gathered in his twisted goatee, so I reach out gently to swat the crumbs away. The pheromones are probably undetectable through the stench of burnt non-dairy milk, but I give Lucifer the non-verbal cue to let me know he wants to lead me to the single-stall bathroom in the corner of this espresso empire.
Instead The Devil clears his throat and says, “Sorry man, you’re not my type.”
From the corner of my eye, the barista watches God’s order circle the drain. He smashes the paper vessel in his fist before tossing it in the trash.
God is not coming and the siren on my cappuccino is the closest I’ll ever get to ruling the underworld.
INSTANT NOODLES 