Free The Starving Years by Jordan Castillo Price Page A

keyboard.  
    And that, on some level, it did feel kind of right.
    “Pour in the hot water…there you go…and now put this lid on to keep it warm while it steeps.”
    Marianne scowled at the press. “That’s all?”  
    “Well, you push this thing down to shove the grounds out of the way when you’re done.”
    “Yeah, but I mean…you soak it in boiling water? That’s it? That’s what they charge you for at a restaurant?”
    “They charge you for the overhead,” Randy interjected. “Rent, heat, staff, advertising. Same as anything else.”
    Marianne stood on her tiptoes and looked down at the plunger as if it might give her some clue.
    “The coffee’s not totally cheap,” Tim said. “It’s imported.”
    “Shipping,” Randy said. “More overhead. And all of it’s marked up, every step of the way. People don’t realize how the economics break down.” He shifted the plastic bag so he could peek out from underneath it. “Then they get mad when they realize that ninety percent of the cost of a product is in the overhead.”
    Tim put Marianne’s hand on the press, and his hand on top of hers. “Push down. Like this, ’til you feel the resistance. That’s all there is to it.”
    “I can’t believe they charge two dollars a cup and get away with it.”
    “Coffee demystified,” Randy said. “Now your innocence is destroyed.”
    “Ha ha.”
    Tim lined up the two coffee cups and the glass on the counter. “I only have these. We’ll need to drink it in shifts.”
    “None for me,” Randy said. “I’ll probably end up swallowing my damn tooth.”
    That makes life marginally easier. Tim began pouring into the nearest cup—the glass tumbler. It obligingly shattered, spraying glass and hot coffee over the side of the counter.
    “Sonofa—”
    “Don’t.” Marianne tried to stop Tim from making a grab for a shard of glass that was teetering on the edge of the countertop, but she was too late. He hissed and jerked his hand back.
    Marianne took his hand gently and unfurled his fingers to expose the cut. “Not too deep. Why don’t you go, uh,” she seemed to recall there were only two chairs, “relax. I’ll clean this up.”
    Tim lingered between the kitchen island and the rest of the room, watching. It felt surprisingly liberating to see that tumbler disappear shard by shard as she picked up the glass and threw it in the trash. One more vestigial piece of his past put to rest.
    He glanced down at his hand. The tiny cut was already closing. He felt resilient, for a change.
    Marianne found the broom, not difficult to do as it was leaning against the wall, and started sweeping up the wet glass. “Did the Voice of Reason update yet?” she asked.
    Javier glanced at Tim—was that a smile? Almost—and made a show of navigating to the webpage. “Not yet.” He typed a few lines in a text editor, then gestured for Tim to come take a look with a subtle nod.
    Tim approached and read over his shoulder: If you update your site, she’ll stop hovering around your computer. Javier waited just a moment, then selected the text and hit the delete key, stood up, and went to the window.
    “Does that window open?” he asked.
    Why? Tim did his best not to sound suspicious. “Yeah.”
    “I’ll take my coffee on the fire escape. I can use the air.”
    “Now you’re talking.” Randy stood and dropped the damp bag of veg on the arm of the recliner. “I’m getting stir-crazy.”
    Right. Jam four strangers in to his house and see how he’d like it. Randy opened the window and climbed out. “You go ahead,” Tim told Marianne. “I only have two mugs.”
    She looked at him with such pity it was almost comical. “But….”
    “You’re the guest. Go on.”
    Randy was barely halfway out when he spotted someone on a neighboring fire escape and yelled, “Hey, what’s going on? You speak English?” He pulled his head back in and motioned for Javier to join him. “C’mere, we can get the scoop from those