He tracks each of my steps to his table, and as I get closer, he pulls the second chair from the opposite side to sit beside him. Next to his laptop a brown sandwich with big yellow arches sits beside him next to a steaming cup of coffee.
"They serve coffee here. You know?"
Vincent's nose crinkles. "I can only imagine the taste resembles river water."
"Hey, we treat everything before we drink it." I'm sure Vincent has Davis driving all over town looking for an acceptable cup of coffee, and I can picture his disdain when he found out there isn't anything. McDonald's is as good as it gets.
"How did you survive without a place to get a decent cup of coffee for eighteen years?" Vincent asks unrolling the top of the brown bag.
"We made it at home." Or we have low standards of coffee. It's
