“Say I had the power to grant you one wish,” his wife said. “What would you wish for?”
“Hmm…” her husband said. “Can it be anything?”
“It can be anything you want,” his wife said. “Just name it.”
“Okay,” her husband said. Her husband thought long and hard about what he wanted.
And then it came to him.
“I’ve got it!” her husband said. “I would wish to have coffee with David Lynch. God, that would be great. We’d go to a diner – like The Double R Diner from Twin Peaks – and we’d sit in a booth with red leather seats, and there would be one of those napkin
dispensers on the table. Then the waitress would come over and pour two cups of hot black coffee. She’d ask us if we wanted anything to eat – a slice of cherry pie, perhaps. We’d order two pieces of hot cherry pie with a side of vanilla ice cream – and I mean realvanilla ice cream with those tiny black pods in it, not that cheap artificial crap you get from the supermarket. Then the waitress would go and get us our pies.
We’d both take a few generous sips of delicious black coffee while we sat there
waiting for our pies. ‘This is good coffee,’ I’d say. ‘Damn fine coffee,’ he’d say. Then I’d take another sip of my coffee, and he’d say, ‘Wait until you try it with the pie and ice cream. That’ll be a fine experience.’ Then I’d say, ‘You ever put milk and sugar in your coffee?’ Then he’d stare at me for a second and say, ‘Do I ever put milk and sugar in my coffee? Get real!’ I’d laugh at this.
After a couple of minutes, the waitress would bring us our freshly-baked slices of cherry pie. We’d each cut into our pies and put a piece on the end of our respective forks
– adding a bit of that smooth vanilla ice cream with those tiny black pods inside of it – and then we’d clink our forks together like they were pint glasses full of beer. ‘Cheers,’ we’d say. Then we wouldn’t talk for a while because we’d be concentrating on our pies, washing every delicious bite down with some of that damn fine black coffee.
Then David would light up a cigarette and offer me one. Even though I’ve never smoked in my life, I’d accept his offer and have a few puffs with my coffee. Coffee and cigarettes are supposed to go well together. That’s what I’ve been told.
Anyway, when we’d finished eating our pies, the waitress would come over with some more of that damn fine black coffee, and we’d probably talk about TwinPeaksand transcendental meditation and that yellow wristwatch he wore in David Lynch: The ArtLifebefore it was time to pay for our coffee and pie. David would pay. ‘I’ve got this,
champ,’ he’d say. ‘I insist.’ He’d get out his wallet and pay for the coffee and pie, leaving a very generous tip for our lovely waitress. And then I’d come home and tell you all about it.”
“Wow,” his wife said. “You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?” “Absolutely,” her husband said. “It’s important to me.”
Then his wife looked at him with a big smile on her face and said, “Guess what?” “What?” her husband said.
“I knewthat that’s what you would wish for,” his wife said. “No, you didn’t,” her husband said.
“Oh yeah?” his wife said.
There was a knock at the door.
Her husband looked at her and smiled. “What have you done?” her husband said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his wife said. “Just go and get the door.”
Her husband walked out into the hallway and looked over at the front door. He could see the outline of a figure with elevated hair through the blurred glass. Was he about to meet his hero?
Her husband took a deep breath. Then he opened the front door to find a pizza delivery man standing in front of him.
“Hello,” the man said. “Pizza delivery.” The man took the pizza out of his special
pizza bag and handed it over. “Have a nice evening,” the pizza delivery man said. Then he got back in his tired old Ford Focus and drove off.
Her husband shut the front door, walked back into the kitchen, and stared at his wife for a second.
“What are you looking at me like that for?” his wife said.
“I don’t know,” her husband said. “It’s just, for some reason, I thought David Lynch would be standing on the other side of the door.”
“Why on earth would you think that?” his wife said.
“Well, you know,” her husband said. “You kind of made it seem like you had arranged
“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” his wife said.
“Then how did you know that I would use my wish to have coffee with David
Lynch?” her husband said.
“Because I know you,” his wife said. “We’ve been together for over twenty-five years.”
“Oh, right,” her husband said.
“It was just a hypothetical question,” his wife said. “Jesus, Darren, I’m your wife, not a fucking genie.”
Thomas Morgan is a writer from Worthing in West Sussex. He’s been published in Dream Catcher Magazine, STORGY, Bandit Fiction, Nymphs, Secret Attic, Rhodora Magazine, The Mark Literary Review, Tether’s End, Sledgehammer Lit, Untitled: Voices, Idle Ink, and Truffle Magazine.
“Coffee with David Lynch” was previously published in Truffle Magazine