Coffee Caravan for Midnight Flavors

Coffee Caravan for Midnight Flavors  
    
     We bicycle down student row where the bar scene gets in gear while we cruise the path where even police demur.
     Rowena says, “I’ll wield a moonbeam sword to swat the ghouls that haunt our space.”
     I reply, “With my bike as a horse I’ll joust those devils.”
     Rowena says, “What fools we mortals be. With our ten speeds, we will outrun any creatures of the night.”
     We ride through the night pitch as the velvet hair of my bicycle girl in our double star whose tresses are ribbons for a Halloween party girl but with raspberry lips instead of charcoal and nude fingernails.
     Rowena says, “my fingernails may look plain but can scratch the eyes of any menace into scars as crimson as the blood-red moon.”
     I say, “This night is as lush as the world seemed when we were young.”
     Rowena says, “Fortunately, We avoid the police by bicycling caffeinated instead of intoxicated.”
     I reply, “Is there an alcohol level rule for bikers?”
     “The campus police will give you a breath test if you are parked. They even busted frat boys in the house. Let’s not tempt fate.”
     “No test can measure my love for you.”
     “Biking while enchanted by your lady is a form of intoxication that won’t show up in a test but may fool the cops into pulling you over.”
     “Your perfume only adds to the effect. Why don’t you ride downwind?”
     “Because you might get endeared to the flowers instead of me.”
     “The flowers here are ragweed.”
     “My fragrance seems to have kept us from sneezing.”
     We pedal like madhouse escapees to a watering hole known as the Bayou where the only catfish that swims bears beer in lush nights and we haven’t ridden these miles all seven for barley and hops. We want to taste of Costa Rican café an aperitif with a smear of lipsticked-lips that are a part a must of steam brewed café noir.
     Rowena says, “There is a heart on my latte
cream. What are the chances of that?”
     I reply, “As much as those for a Valentine snowflake.”
     Ro says, “Or a girl from housing project row finding a kindred spirit in an alumnus of a Catholic boarding school who never had a conversation with a girl until me.”
     I reply, “Jewish guilt isn’t so different than Catholic confession.”
     Rowena says, “Would you be my confessor? My deeds are hideous.”
     I reply, “The depravity of your deeds may bring us to the crux of a matter we are not ready for.”
     Ro replies, “You can take the boy out of the parochial school but you can’t take the divinity school out of the boy.”
     I reply, “Religion is a fool’s errand for monks and laymen alike.”
     Rowena says, “Then let’s let the espresso be our Irish coffee minus the whiskey.”
     “I’ve never been drunk before.”
     “Is that a plan of action?”
     “More an idle whisper in the night.”
     “Shall we take this show next door to the cocktail lounge?”
     “That would pose a quandary. Bicycling home would prove a wobbly endeavor.”
     “I have a stash of pot at home I’ve been saving for your coming out of your monastic phase party.”
     “You, surprise me.”
     “I am surprised that you were defrocked over coffee by the blink of my eye.”