I’m in a coffee shop. One I don’t recognize whatsoever. There’s a bar, like a diner almost, which lines the back wall made completely of polished glass that reeks of Windex. The chemicals almost override that awful odor ground coffee beans give off.

He’s there, at the bar, laughing. Throwing his head back like he’s just heard the funniest joke this world has to tell. My friends chuckle alongside him. I can’t help but wonder if I am the butt of their joke.

Their cups have each been long drained of their contents besides the crusting remnants settling at the pits of their carriers. A sudden light bulb dings above my head.

“Who wants refills?” I shout this, arms crossed, wallet in pocket: poking out and at the ready...and fear...fear was gone with the wind from the crackling A.C., dropped off somewhere far behind me where I will never retrace my steps to.

There’s a silence, but soon it’s broken by squealing hands shooting up into the air. There’s something odd. His hand is up there too. He smirks. It’s the same exact face he makes every single time he sees me. It’s all knowing. It’s superior.

I know I have a choice. I can be the bigger person and get him coffee too, just so he knows how much I better I am. But I don’t knowingly spend my money on rapists; the truth is I am definitely too petty for that kind of maturity.

“Coffee on me,” I bow my head slightly, “For you,” I’m pointing down the row, “you, you, you…” I pause, reaching him at last, “Oh and well, not for him.” I contemplate adding an obviously, but realize I am at least better than that. However that smirk, that smirk is one I wear now. It’s an accessory I ripped off his face and planted on mine. One he cannot have back. Because now he knows: he’s under my control.