Water-stained countertops.
Exposed pipes.
And sitting proudly in the middle of it all was Archie’s supposedly dead espresso machine.
A thick stream of coffee poured into a chipped diner mug.
Underneath the photograph, Skyla had written:
FIXED.
COST: $3.80.
VINEGAR.
The men at the table burst out laughing.
Julian, one of Archie’s junior partners, leaned closer.
“Man, where did you find this woman?”
Archie smiled.
Julian shook his head.
“She’s like some Depression-era scavenger.”
More laughter.
“When are you going to let her upgrade her life?”
Archie took a sip of his drink.
“She doesn’t want me to.”
“That’s part of the act.”
Archie’s smile faded slightly.
“What act?”
Julian leaned back.
“The whole independent-girl thing.”
He gestured vaguely.
“Come on. She’s dating you.”
The table laughed again.
Archie laughed too.
But somewhere inside him, something small and poisonous took hold.
He and Skyla had been together nearly two years.
