Today's prompt is from Julie: Write about a blindfold, a plane ticket, and a cup of coffee. So I went with a different scene for the characters from this prompt.
"It's coffee, Greg. It isn't going to kill anyone." I turned my back on him and tilted the coffee carafe just enough to allow a trickle of coffee into the mug in my hand. The toe of Greg's shoe tapped on the linoleum floor behind me and I tried to slow the trickle even more. "Are you sure you don't want a cup?"
"I don't drink coffee."
"That's right. A Tea-only man. So, what, is coffee not good enough for you? Too American?"
"Coffee isn't American. It's African."
I puffed out a breath of air. "Technicality."
"The Africans would probably consider it a rather large technicality."
I slammed the carafe back onto the coffee machine and spun. "Do you like--" Drops of coffee flew out of my cup and landed on his spotless light blue dress shirt.
"Blast!" I set my mug down and wrenched open a drawer for a dish rag, grabbing the ugly puce one on top. I quickly dampened it in the sink, then grabbed his shirt.
He tried to pry his shirt out of my hands. "Margaret, please."
"Look, just stay still. I'm sorry. Let me get this out."
"No, it's fine. Really."
"Why do you always wear these stupid dress shirts anyway? You're always so formal. Don't you have at least one t-shirt that says "I love the Beatles" or "Americans are the ugly step-child" or something? I thought all Brits had at least one."
"Margaret, stop." He wrenched his shirt out of my hands. "I'll take care of it."
"Right. You going to rush it to the dry-cleaners?" I picked my mug back up and took a sip.
He started unbuttoning his shirt. Right there. In the kitchen.
I spat my coffee out, spraying his shirt even more, and slammed the mug back onto the counter. "What are you doing?"
"I was removing my shirt. But apparently I should keep it on until you finish your coffee. You know, as a shield in case you--"
"Shut up." But I smiled. I couldn't help it. His responses were always so disarming. "You can't undress in my kitchen."
"I'm not undressing. I'm taking off my soiled shirt, not my pants."
My gaze flicked to his jeans before I refocused on my mug. My face felt warm. Stupid Brit. "Ugh. Only you would use the word soiled. Can't you take it off in your room?"
"You want your mother to notice these rather fine remnants of our conversation spotting my shirt when I walk past her in the next room? I would have to tell her where they came from."
I scowled. "My parents won't even notice you. They're watching Blindfold."
"What is that?"
"It's an old movie. You know, Philipe Dunne's last film?"
I shrugged. "Can't say I'm surprised."
"What's it about?"
I swirled the coffee around in my mug. "It's about this psychiatrist who has to help this guy, but the guy is in a secret location because he's wanted by the enemy, so the psychiatrist is blindfolded every time he goes for a visit."
"It's actually quite--" I glanced at him. He was undoing the last button. The rest of his shirt hung wide open. His chest was carved with muscle like the model's on a calendar Louisa hung in her room when we were sixteen. Holy smokes, he was hot.
He glanced up and caught me staring. And he smiled.
I scowled. "Now you'll have to walk past my parents without a shirt on. Way worse."
He wadded up his shirt with a shrug and something fell out of the front pocket. I swooped in and caught it. "What's this?"
"It's nothing." He tried to grab it from me, but I twirled away and opened the meticulously folded paper.
It was a receipt for a plane ticket to London with his name on it. For tomorrow.