Jack and Jill on Coffee

“I don’t really like coffee,” Jack said.

“I know,” said Jill.

“It’s just that bitter, burned taste.” He shuddered, scraping his tongue on his teeth to shed the imaginary flavor.

Jill put down the book she was failing to read. “That’s why lots of people have it in lattes and mochas and such.”

“I don’t get it. I can still taste the coffee under all that.”

“So don’t drink it,” she said.

“I don’t.” He fell silent just long enough for Jill to think about going back to her book. Then, “I just don’t see how anyone else can like it.”

Jill slammed her book down. “You don’t have to understand it. Just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean you have to constantly question why other people like it. And denigrating it forces people who do like it to defend it, when all they want is to enjoy the thing they like without hearing how much you don’t care for it.”

“Okay, okay,” said Jack. “I’m sorry I mentioned it.” The apology was for the wrong thing, but it was the best she would get.

“Fine.” Jill returned to her book.

“I just really don’t like coffee.”

“I know.”

This entry was posted in Fiction and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *