“Aren’t you the clever one,” I say to it now.
Another image flashes, the cherry red that reminds me of Malcolm’s convertible. Probably because it is Malcolm’s convertible. He’s stepping from it, golden samovar under one arm, his destination clear: the Coffee Depot.
And I’m blocking his path. Me, with splotches of coffee decorating my interview outfit, my hair damp, my expression defeated and dull. Malcolm’s nose wrinkles, and his lip curls ever so slightly. Not that I can blame him.
Okay, at the time, I totally blamed him.
Something slips from the samovar’s spigot. It’s our friendly little sprite. Back then, I was too focused on Malcolm to notice, and vice versa, I’m sure.
“Hey,” he says to that same sprite floating in the steam. “You shouldn’t have been able to do that. I had a conta
