The beautiful young girl offered me coffee. The first taste peeled back many years...
"I finally met the Turk one moonless night. His caravan was camped at a nameless oasis at the mouth of a wahdi many miles east of Marakesh. He had no love for me, but his hatred for Dar Mahmoud was deeper than any well. He poured syrupy black coffee into tiny cups with his own hand, splashing the inky brew over the rim of mine onto the saucer. A spoon would almost stand in my cup. The Sahara wind cooled as it blew in across the oasis and made the fug in the tent almost pleasant. I relaxed and listened with half an ear to the Turk recite Mahmoud's crimes, real and imagined, and to what the Turk proposed he and I would do to mete out justice. And garner profit at the same time, of course..."
"Dad, I know it's strong, o.k.? There's half and half in the fridge."
Mom got waffles with strawberries this morning, and a sewing machine one cut below industrial grade with which to make the curtains she's been planning on "just as soon as I can get this tensioning problem fixed" with her old machine.
I'm off to watch "Serenity" with her. Remember, treat your mother well!