CC slammed the door of her hotel room, and instantly regretted it!. She felt the reverberations down the long corridor and inwardly cursed. She hated people who slammed doors and talked too loud in hotel rooms, and corridors. Since half her life seemed to be on the road staying in these places she had, she thought, trained herself better then to take out her frustrations on the hotel furniture.She allowed herself a moment, she wasn't in a hurry, she was just going to find something to eat after just one more coffee convention, which by now should have wound down and then come back to the room, do more paperwork, and settle in for the night. She began a slow measured walk across the carpeted hallway towards the elevator.
CC was a taster, new roasts, new bean hybrids, new mixes of same. Not for the big boys, of course. They paid more, but they were looking for a consistent flavor profile. Her company specialized in the more esoteric growers, the unique, the different. Often they would be short term contracts. Their beans were like wines and and year in and out there flavors varied. She had heard some of the coffee snobs who surrounded her wax lyrical for hours about a set of foothills in Sumatra, that had produced just the one crop, in one season that was sublime. She had seen coffee like that go for extraordinary sums of money, but that was too crazy for her company. They liked to corner a grower, have them sell all of one years production to them, and then roast the beans themselves. It worked out well, because her company could tell a story, from field to cup. The aficionados of the coffee world liked that kind of a story. She herself had done a couple of videos walking amongst the bean plants explaining the climate and soil, but it wasn't her strength to stand in front of a camera. She tasted the product that came to the conventions and made the deals. That was her thing.
Not that her long term boyfriend thought that her way of life was a real job. It didn't matter that his real job paid about a quarter of what hers did, that she flew all over the States, and lived out of her suitcase most of the year. He had a real job. And as usual, that had been the core of the argument over the phone. Her traveling. He was going out, again, tonight, and from some of the Facebook pages she had seen of some of her so called friends he wasn't missing her too much. She was 42 now, her boyfriend of six years was older, but of late her time on the road had begun to grind on him. She loved her job, but she did miss the sex. Really missed it, and all she and him had done last time she had returned home was argue. In the beginning it was all they ever did, fuck like rabbits, for a couple of days, then she packed her bags and she was in a cab heading to the airport. Gradually that had paled. She was never there, he said, always traveling, and in many ways he had been a man to come home too, but not, the man, because her home had been so dark and cold, but now they rarely made love, but boy did they ever argue. So now, it seemed, she was single again. She had reached the elevator bank without realizing it, and stared for a moment dumbly at the call buttons. Her boyfriend, now ex-boyfriend, she decided, was an ass, and pressed the down button.
As she entered the elevator she noticed she was still in the severely tailored business suit she wore at the conventions, but without the jacket. So a black pencil skirt and a white blouse, with black heels, and her oh so white legs. Well it looked casual enough, maybe a little severe, but the little dark red clutch that had her cards and phone, and her long red hair made it look casual enough. Maybe. She tucked her room key into the front pocket, and the doors eased silently closed as she pressed the button for the lobby floor.
The convention had been held in a ballroom in the hotel. Booths of traders, tasters. People who had that unique brew, and were looking for retailers who would take a chance on them on their shelves. People looking for sponsorship deals. Their had even been a few speakers in some of the rooms off the ballroom, discussing their stories of their coffee world. The ever expanding coffee market. And a competition. "Coffee of the Convention" All the usual stuff.
The doors sighed open, and CC stepped out into the lobby and almost immediately tried to step back into the elevator. Bobby though, had already seen her. His big round face, and even rounder bulk were turned her way, and his arm was up almost before she had exited the elevator. He was a nice man, but she really wasn't in the mood for him. Not right now
"CC," he bawled out, "you just have to taste this!" He hadn't exactly made it an order, but Bobby knew who she worked for, and even though he was not in the market for the unusual and different, he was enough of a coffee hound to know where a good coffee should go. Reluctantly, she moved towards him.
Bobby worked for the industry big guns, always looking for a coffee that they could mix with a dozen others to make that soulless one flavor plateau, and always ready to discuss how it was achieved. Beside him, hidden under a mop of unruly brown hair, was a man in tee shirt and jeans. He had a grinder, a kettle, and scales, and, coffee creamer! That shocked her, no true coffee snob would put creamer into their coffee. She felt her heels click towards Bobby and the man on automatic pilot. Booby never said a word, he just held up his own cup and placed it under her nose. It hadn't been brewed long her nose told her. The water was still quite hot, but the richness of the aroma, the subtle byplay of the hot coffee drifted through her nasal passages. She relieved him of the cup, and took a deeper sniff. She looked at the dark chocolate rich color of the coffee, no creamer she saw, and took a slow aerating sip, sucking slowly between her lips. She tasted earthy, mustiness, spice, wood, tobacco and leather, it seemed to be screaming Sumatra, but there was an under-note that she couldn't quite catch. Something about the Caribbean?
Which was when the man with the mop, really looked up, and she found herself looking into deep set brown eyes, and square, tanned face. He must have been aware of her before, especially with Bobby bellowing her name across the lobby, but those big sheep dog locks had hidden those eyes from her. He couldn't be more than twenty six or seven she decided, but he was looking at her with more than a little open curiosity, and obvious interest. She squelched that thought. She was at least ten years his senior, and even with constant visits to the various hotel gyms, here there and everywhere she knew she was no longer a spring chicken, and her butt was growing, and the patches of cellulite. It was hell growing old. She knew it, so whatever she was seeing was all about the coffee. She took another aerating sip and tried to break eye contact, and failed. Those brown eyes were intoxicating. Beside her she heard Bobby saying, "As soon as I tasted this, I knew this would interest you. It's nothing we need, and the amount he's growing is way too small." Bobby continued to watch her face as her taste buds worked the coffee over. She finally swallowed. The boy with the eyes was still looking at her, moving slightly in his low slung hotel lounge seat. Repositioning himself in those tight jeans? Damnit! He wasn't interested in her. His mouth seemed to be opening, but she got in first.
"Have you had dinner yet?"
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Bobby had waved the pair of them off as they hit the hotel restaurant. The boy, Kirk, had collected all his paraphernalia and stowed it behind the hotel lobby desk, with a brief smile which CC noticed made the girl behind it smile very warmly back. She had started to steer him into the middle of the room, but he had made a break for a smaller table in an alcove, and after a moment she had followed him to it. It had a curving bench seat and they had slipped around it from either end. He went nearly halfway, CC stopped after barely a quarter. CC had looked into those brown eyes and she read intent there. She had seen, as he had unfolded himself from the low slung chair, that her initial interpretation had been correct. Outlined against the fabric of his jeans was the definite signs of arousal. CC decided that it couldn't have been for her. Maybe it was the desk clerk? And before she got into the customary company spiel, he had his hand up to stop her.
"I'm sorry," was what he said.
