They say that it's where the heart is,

but everything I've ever loved is behind some other door.

All of these decorations 

All of these ornamentations

All of these distractions

We box them up, four walls, top them off with a ceiling,

There's no place like it.

I asked her to meet me in the kitchen when she was finished with her bath. After that I went and brewed a pot of Jamaican blue mountain coffee. I'm not a stranger to having women around the house, and it's not unusual that a woman will spend the night and make herself comfortable in my bedroom, or bathroom, or even in my kitchen; that wasn’t the thing that I was concerned about. I worried more that I had gotten so drunk that I’d forgotten even coming home last night, imagined my trip through the front door and I stumbled through the living room and arrived in my bed, that I had constructed something out of memories that seemed right to fill in the blanks. Surely I’d remember something having to do with a woman as beautiful as this mysterious girl in the bathtub who was smoking my cigarettes and letting the ashes fall onto the bathroom floor. Surely I'd remember something about how we met, what witty approach one of us made towards the other, what kind of drinks she liked, and how many. But I couldn’t. The memory just wasn’t there. So as the coffee brewed and I debated the possibilities of how she may have arrived and my potential obligations to her as a result of that, she finished her bath.

When she walked into the kitchen, I offered her a cup of coffee.

 
"Never had it," she responded, a curious look on her face. An almost indifferent tone in her voice.

"Never?" I asked. I found it hard to believe that such a person could exist. No coffee? In a world like mine? I handed her my cup, two creamers, heavy on the sugar, still steaming, and started preparing another.