By Siobhan Gallagher
Anya fussed with the clean-o-bot 3000—she had found it vacuuming the dishes and washing the carpet—and muttered about how she should’ve bought the 4000 model. Her husband approached her, wearing a stern expression, and handed her some papers.
She took the papers, saw the big fat DIVORCE printed across. “What’s this for?”
“For that terrible cup of coffee you made me this morning.”
Hands on her hips, she raised a sardonic eyebrow at him. “What was wrong with it?”
“It was murderous!”
“You’re being overly dramatic.” Shaking her head, she set the papers down and went back to fussing.
He picked the papers back up and shoved them toward her. “No, I’m preserving my life.”
And that was that. Anya tried to argue, but her husband—or ex-husband, to be precise—wouldn’t stand to be married to a woman who couldn’t make a decent, or at least non-lethal, cup of coffee. Really, she didn’t think her coffee was that awful; of course, she didn’t drink the stuff herself. She much preferred chamomile tea mixed with honey, or a spicy chai tea that left her tongue tingling.
The next day Anya took the hoverbus down to the courthouse, where they had installed a Divorce-Made-Easy machine. Naturally, there was already a line. As she waited in line, the middle-aged woman behind her bragged about how this was her third divorce this month.
“That must be awful,” she said, as this was her first divorce, and she couldn’t fathom three times that in a single month.
“No, not really,” the woman said, “It’s a lot like cars, you just trade one in whenever you get tired of the last one.”
“But don’t you want to settle down?”
“I did. Forty-five times.”
Sighing and wishing for simpler times, Anya dropped her papers into the machine slot. Seconds later, the machine registered her as officially single. Maybe she didn’t need a husband; after all, there were plenty of things a single woman could do that didn’t involve coffee-making or accusations of murder. She went out with friends (but she got tired of their bitching), she took a trip to Mars (which wasn’t much more than a giant rust ball), she attempted the drums in a small electro-pop-synth-neogoth-folk band (but she didn’t much care for wearing purple lipstick and light plugs in her hair), she went sky-yodeling (which she rather enjoyed, but had lost her voice for an entire week).
But at the end of it all, when she returned to her apartment, its dark emptiness reflected her heart. There was no one to share wicked secrets with about her co-workers, who wouldn’t then spread it to the next person; no one to keep up late at night with discussions about her readings, as she tried to work out why the hell someone would write such smut (and why the critics loved it); no warm body laying next to her in bed, a presence as comforting as a child’s teddy bear.
And, deep down, she wanted someone to tell her she wasn’t a failure at making coffee.
With her mind made up, Anya submitted a personality test to a dating agency, then was given instructions to head to their offices atop the mall tower. You couldn’t miss it, it was the floor that had a garish holographic display of a pair of woman’s lips smacking. Well, she supposed upon entering, not everyone could have good taste.
The lobby was spacious and empty, except for Siamese triplets sitting off to one side, along with a balding man wearing a cape and mask. Anya strode up to the main desk where the registrar typed rapidly on a phantom keyboard for the sake of appearing busy.
She politely coughed, bringing his attention to her.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m Anya Freep. I’m here about… I mean I want to find…” Oh God, could she sound any more desperate?
The registrar gave her a knowing grin. “Of course. Could you just look riiiiight over there.”
Her gaze followed his finger—Flash of light. Colored specks danced before her eyes.
“Great, thanks,” he said, did some typing. “Just needed to examine your mental state. Trying to keep the crazies off the list.”
“That was an exam?” She blinked the last of the dots away.
“No, that was the stimulus. You didn’t go berserk, so that’s always a good sign. Anyway, almost have a list of candidates for you.”
“Oh, could I make one request.” She peeked over the registrar’s shoulder, seeing the display screen fill with names and photos. “You see, I was hoping to find a husband who didn’t mind bad coffee.”
The registrar swiveled in his seat, cocked an eyebrow. “How bad are we talking?”
She rubbed her hands together, looked down shamefully at her feet. “Umm, I was told it was murderous.”
With a sigh, he hit a key and the list emptied.
She gasped. “What! What happened?”
“All our candidates list a dislike for bad coffee.”
“Is that all anyone cares about?” She felt her voice rising. “What about love and companionship?”
“Well, coffee is very important.”
Her spirits sunk lower than a politician using a charity for a photo op. Maybe she should
just admit that she’d forever be alone.
As she turned back toward the door, the registrar said, “Hold on a sec. If you don’t have any qualms about inter-species dating, I could open you up to our ET candidates.”
“Do they mind bad coffee?”
“Hell, most of them don’t even know what coffee is.”
* * *
The alien arrived at her apartment at a quarter till eight the next day. He was about half her height, bald, bulging forehead with a third eye in the center.
“Miss Freep?” He looked up at her, his lower jaw working though no other words came out.
“Why yes. But call me Anya. Please, come in.”
“I’m Eggmcnoc,” he said, stepping inside.
“Could I interest you in something to drink? Perhaps some coffee?” She had already brewed a pot; spent the whole afternoon filtering water, inspecting the coffee grinds under a magnifying lens, and measuring the joules of heat necessary to prevent the coffee from burning.
“Coffee? Sure, I guess.”
Eggmcnoc plopped into one of the kitchen chairs, took a gander of his surroundings. His jaw kept working like he wanted to say something; maybe his translator was broken.
“So where are you from?” she asked, placing a steamy mug of coffee before him.
“A little place, couple light-years past Andromeda,” he said, disinterested, then eyed the coffee. “Is it supposed to be brown?”
“Well, yes. Is that a problem?” She started rubbing her hands, silently praying: Please drink it, please drink it.
“Eh, no. Never understood why Earth people liked drinking brown, tho.” He blew on his
mug before taking a sip.
She waited anxiously for his verdict.
He sat very still. His skin changed from green to red, then finally blue. Seconds later, he went into spasms, choking and gagging, beating his chest.
“Oh crap.” She quickly contacted Emergency and hid the coffee pot before the medical team arrived.
* * *
Her next date was a giant slug. He carried with him a gelatinous globe with wormy things floating inside. She almost retched at the sight, reminding her of her aunt’s Jello molds—except this one came from the abysmal depths of nightmare.
“What’s that?” She pointed a shaky finger at the globe.
“Bouquet,” he said in a cheery gurgle, then dropped it on the ground at her feet.
She did everything in her power to hold in a squeal of terror.
“Um, well, thank you.” She let him in, while leaving the globe out.
“What a nice place you have here,” he said, his eye stalks twisting around. But then she realized he was trying to get a peek underneath her skirt, and she yanked down on the hem.
“How about I get you some coffee?” She led him into the kitchen, ignoring the disgusting trail of slime he was leaving on the carpet. If he enjoyed her coffee, it would all be worth it.
“Oh yes, I’ve been meaning to try that. They say it’s all the rage on this planet.”
“And an obsession, too,” she mumbled to herself. She missed the days before her birth when songs were about love, and not about getting the next coffee fix.
She poured him a mug and he slurped it up like he hadn’t had a drink in light-years.
“Not bad!”
Her heart fluttered. Finally! She’d found someone who appreciated her coffee. With a
smile, she filled his mug.
On the fourth cup, his guts burst.
* * *
Anya marched into the dating agency and flung herself across the registrar’s desk.
“Please, give me one more chance,” she cried.
The registrar’s expression was a mix of confusion and get me out of here! He managed to calm down, though a frown had imprinted itself on his face.
“See, when you said your coffee was murderous, I didn’t think you meant literally.”
“It isn’t!” She stood straight, picked at a newly chipped nail. “Really, I don’t know what’s so wrong with my coffee. I buy the best stuff.”
“Have you thought about not serving your dates coffee? Just as a precaution. Otherwise, we’re going to get whacked with a liability clause.”
But then she’d have to admit she was an utter failure at coffee-making, that her lousy ex-husband was right—and no way in hell could she let him be right. No, she had to prove this to herself. Of course, she didn’t have to disclose that to the registrar…
“All right,” she said, with her brightest smile. “I promise not to serve them coffee.”
* * *
…However, she was perfectly within her rights to offer coffee. She’d already set out a tray with a mug of coffee and a platter of biscotti.
The doorbell rang. She took a deep breath while smoothing out her dress before opening the door. In the doorway stood a six-foot-tall grasshopper—and a classy one at that. He had a cane, suit vest with a golden pocket watch, and a bowler hat.
“Good day, madam,” the grasshopper said with a bow. “I’m Allen Parker.”
He may be a giant bug, but she could see herself swooning to his charm. She was even
enamored enough to curtsy. They both chuckled as he stepped inside.
“Quite interesting,” he said, removing his hat. “I was asked by the agency to take a health exam before arriving here. Do you know what for?”
She took his hat and quickly turned away, hiding her blushing embarrassment. “They, um, the apartment complex had to be sprayed for insects recently.”
“Ah, how unfortunate.”
“By the way, there are some refreshments in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
After she hung the hat up, she found Mr. Parker examining the tray’s contents.
“Do you not like coffee?” she asked. “I can get you something else.”
“No, coffee is fine.” He took a pen-like object from his vest pocket and stuck it in the coffee mug.
“What’s that?” She indicated to the pen object as he put it to his maw.
“A multi-purpose pen. It can write, shoot lasers, probe, collide particles. Even be used as a thermometer, though it’s wise to remember which end you use.”
“Oh, how interesting. I don’t think I have one of those.”
“Well of course you don’t. They’re illegal on Earth.”
She thought it best to keep quiet about that.
He took a small sip of coffee, nibbled on a biscotti, went back to the coffee, stirring it with his pen. Everything inside her crossed.
“The biscotti is of excellent selection,” he started. “But I’m afraid you’ve been duped on your coffee purchase.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s mostly dirt.”
“No, it can’t be.” She grabbed the coffee bag out of the cupboard and pointed to the label.
“See, it comes straight from the mountains of South America.”
“It also tastes like the mountains of South America. I’m so very sorry to point that out to you, but I thought you should know.”
Her whole world crumbled, all her expectations dashed. But then she thought: It’s not me. Oh my God, it’s not my fault! I’m only guilty of buying lousy coffee!
“No, no. I should be sorry,” she said, sounding more giddy than apologetic. “I’ll go out and buy some decent coffee for you right this instant.”
Mr. Parker held up a twiggy limb. “Oh, no need. I’m not really a coffee person. If it doesn’t trouble you though, I’d like a cup of tea.”
“You drink tea? So do I!”
“Yes, I find its subtle flavors more enticing than… well, this.” He indicated to the coffee. “I know of a wonderful tea bar on Europa, if you’d care to join me.”
“Absolutely! Let me get my purse.”
She was all rainbows and puppy dogs on the inside. To think an over-sized grasshopper had better taste and sophistication than most people she knew.
But what to do with the rest of that nasty coffee? Well, she’d heard that her ex-husband had recently gotten engaged, so why not send his new fiancée a package of his favorite coffee?
* * *
Siobhan Gallagher is a wannabe zombie slayer, currently residing on the side of a mountain in Colorado. Her fiction has appeared in over thirty publications, including On Spec, PodCastle, Abyss & Apex, and Unidentified Funny Objects anthology.
This story was inspired by an early 1960’s Folgers commercial (it can be found on Youtube), where the husband declares his wife ‘s coffee to be “criminal” and “murder”.
