Espresso

 by Maya Rasmussen

My sister wants me to see how rich she is. She has this espresso machine, not the dainty Nespresso machine anyone can buy from Target. A real espresso maker. Stainless steel. Indistinctly European name like Leli Dulce Bianca Madre di Visconti. With removable portafilters and a tamper and wand to steam milk. Dials. “To check the pressure.”

“The pressure?”

“You can reduce pressure and control the flow. Perfect extraction every time.”

She serves me an espresso. Not the latte I only asked for because I was being nice letting her show off her new toy. 

“Milk would get in the way of the taste.” 

“The taste?”

“You’d miss the complexity.”

I sip it and smile.

“Oh yeah. I can taste it.”

She smiles. I’m not sure what it means.

It’s her husband’s fault. He’s always talking about shit like this. Listening to him go on about wine is torture. She never used to be this way. Six months with him and she’s talking about tannins and acidity. 

“It cost a bundle, but it’s worth it.”

Later, I’ll look online and find out how much the espresso machine costs. I don’t need to. I already know it’s expensive. And I know she wants me to look it up online and see how even on sale it costs more than I can afford to spend on anything. But she must have the best. Even if it’s something dumb like an espresso machine, she must have the one with gleaming parts and complicated dials. 

“Anyway, sweetie, you’re not supposed to drink lattes in the afternoon.”

“Why not?”

She gives me a pitying look and says, “It’s not how they do it in Italy. They’d laugh if you ordered more than an espresso after breakfast.” 

Her husband, who I won’t name because I’m not a name dropper, has given her this life. She hasn’t quit her job, but it’s coming. Why be a nurse if you don’t have to? Emptying bedpans and wiping asses. No fun. She’ll keep the job for a while, because quitting the second you marry money would be unseemly. She’ll say that she loves her job and that helping people is what natters and isn’t it nice that she doesn’t have to worry about her own security so now she can volunteer at clinics where they really need her. I can even do more without the job, she’ll say. Use our money to fund some charity. Combine my medical experience with my resources and hold fundraisers and work with Doctors Without Borders or something. It’s important to give back. Help the less fortunate. 

“How’s your job going?”

She doesn’t care. She just wants me to complain so she can rub it in that she’ll soon be free from workplace bullshit. 

“Fine.”

“How long have you been there now?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?”

“A while,” I say.

“Stace.”

“Peg.”

“Surely you know how long you’ve been there.”

I think before speaking, because if I say what’s on my mind I’ll ruin everything. I kind of want to ruin everything. 

“Well, I guess it depends on what you consider my hiring date.” She squints like she’s having trouble reading fine print. “I interned for six months before they hired me. And then it was part time. I’ve been full time three months now.”

“You like it, then?” She looks at her cup like there’s nothing more important in the world than the crema to espresso ratio. 

“Beats shoveling coal.”

“Uh huh.”

“Last week they had me shred some finance reports. Real damning shit.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. The FBI might raid us any day now.”

She looks up. “Huh?”

“It’s cool,” I say. “They hooked me up with a lawyer. And if shit goes down, I’ll cut a sweet deal with the prosecutor.” 

“Really, Stacy. The things you come up with.”

Mom used to say things like that. To both of us. 

She has to use the bathroom. The way she excuses herself makes me want to scream. The kitchen is so clean. No way she lifted a finger to get it this way. I’m this close to asking her how it feels to be a one percenter, but she’d just snap back, call me jealous, or worse she’d say something like, I know you’re having a rough time right now, but it takes a while to find your path. And if you ever need anything, sweetie. Here, have another espresso. Taste those chocolate notes? 

The machine is too sparkly and nice. It’s a lie. I open a bag labeled Owl’s Head Organic and look at the finely ground beans waiting to become perfect black espresso. She’ll make one more cup when I’m gone. I pour salt into the bag. Just enough. Then I shake it until there’s no trace.

“Peg,” I say when she’s back. “I need to get going.”

“Oh?” she says. “Already?”

“Yeah. Early day tomorrow.”

“Well, then.” She opens her arms making her shawl look like wings. We hug. It’s nice.

Later, when I’m done eating Chinese takeout and drinking my third beer, I’ll hear her vomiting all the way from the suburbs. Painful, loud convulsions. From the warm shelter of my 50 thread count sheets, I’ll cry.