Coffee Confessions

My wife and I were out and about today, adventuring hither and yon when it occurred to us that we needed a cup of coffee. To the coffee bar we went; or rather, to the nearest Wawa which happened to be in Tuckerton. My wife had business to conduct in other parts of the store, which left me on my own to procure two cups of coffee by my lonesome. I poured in the Half & Half and the fake sweetener and noticed that a State Police Trooper had joined me to do the same. The barista was behind a bank of coffee urns toiling away with washing pots. I took my two cups over to the “Mexican Blend” and started pouring from that specific urn. I filled one and started filling the other when half way through the pour it sputtered and died. It was empty.

“I killed the Mexican.” I said to the barista behind the counter. I tapped the urn to identify the empty container. He slowly turned towards my direction and glanced at the Trooper.

“Huh?” he asked.

“…Perhaps I should have put that another way.” I said looking at the Trooper and back to the barista.

“BWA HA HA HA HA!”

“I really don’t know if I want too ask this but could you repeat that, Sir?” the trooper said looking squarely at me.

“…I said, ‘I killed the Mexican’ but I hear that confession is good for the soul.”

The three of us burst into laughter. Tears were running down my cheeks.

My wife joined me after the three players all went our separate ways. I explained the situation and she rightfully warned me about the dangers of being left to my own devices.

Wise woman that Lady of mine.