Coffee with The Devil

I was digging through my mother’s basement—
A graveyard thick with things long spent,
Where cardboard coffins softly sighed,
With secrets time had left to hide.
Perhaps an old yearbook I’d see,
A lost sock or the lost dignity.
Instead, from fog both thick and gray,
He stepped as if he owned the way.

The darkness unmoored, a whisper of dread,
Unease coiling where he tread
His entrance like a trick so grand—
Yet left without a clapping hand.
“Who are you?” I asked, quite plain,
My voice as calm as preachers feign.
“Who am I? I am the evil incarnate. The ultimate—”
“Capitalism?” I cut in fast.
He choked on words not meant to last.
The fog around his throat held tight,
Like indecision wrapped in night.
His glare burned, sulfuric, low,
A flicker of hellfire, banked below.
“What? No. I am the devil.”

Two thoughts took root, grew wild and untamed:
One, my mother and the devil were not the same.
Two, reading Latin late at night
Invites what shouldn’t see the light.

Climbing up the stairs, I did not stall,
I didn't look back as I entered the hall.
Coffee now was my aid,
A shield from all this headache.

He followed, clinging, slight and thin,
Like static sparks upon my skin,
Like breath that lingered, cloying, near,
Something ancient, sharp, and clear.

So, I poured him a cup as well.
“This is darker than souls in ***,”
Grimacing like he'd bitten regret.
“And the aftertaste is bitter” he said
“Like your deals,” I finished.
He did not laugh—devils don’t,
At least, from all the books I’ve known.
His smile was thin, a blade refined,
Patience fraying, hunger entwined.

From the corner of my eye, a flick of orange,
A tail swishing with practiced scorn
The ginger cat, lounging proud,
Eyes slitted, disdain unbowed
The devil hissed; the cat did too,
Back arched, a growl that cut straight through
“So hostile,” he muttered, stepping wide,
Avoiding claws that sought his hide

“Is that a female ginger cat?”
A rare tone in his voice—intrigued
I stroked her head, a careful sweep,
“ Yes, I’m babysitting her for a friend?”
The words trailed up, more question than claim,
The devil’s smirk curved deep and slow,
“It seems you care about the cat.”
She was content, nestled in my lap,
Purring a hymn to herself.

“Though, you seem more irritable than her,” he grumbled.
“ Unscheduled guests tend to bring out my best.”
His eye did twitch, his marble facade cracked,
The mask poised to attack
“But I’m no ordinary guest. I grant wishes.”
“In exchange for souls, right?” I smirked,
My grin as sharp as shattered faith.
He nodded, seeking awe or need—
But I just scrolled with feline ease.

“Faustus wanted Helen of Troy, right?”
I turned the screen, a flick of light.
“I want Achilles.”
He blinked.
“You mean Brad Pitt?”
“No, the real Achilles.”
His disdain was near biblical
As if I just shouted “non serviam “ in heaven
“You realize he’s not available.”

“Fine,” I said, giving the cat a pat.
“Then I want Brad Pitt.”
He blinked.
“He’s older than your father.”

“Funny” I laughed.
The cat jumped off my lap
While the devil tilted his head to follow her path

“Alright. Brad Pitt from Troy—
At least to tell him the film’s a mess
of historical inaccuracies.
or maybe the screenwriter.”

“What about power, glory, vengeance—
The things humans carve their hearts out for?”

"For a dealmaker, your catalog sucks.
Customise your sales pitch to the stakeholder
You’ll have more luck if you tempt me
With cute kitten gifs or poetry”

“So you are a follower of Bastet?”
His fingers tapped against the cup,
“ I am not” I replied
Was that a joke?

I leaned back, stirring slow,
“Two questions,” steady as fate’s flow.
He sighed. “Go on.”
“How do you know English?
Did the British colonize *** too?”
He nearly spat out drink in shock,
“Excuse me?” voice like knife on rock.
The light above flickered, dim and bare,
A shadow moved where none should dare.
“I mean, it would explain a lot.”
He rubbed his temples, sighed once more,
Like gods who curse what they adore.
“No. English is just... convenient.”

“Sure. Second question,” I mused aloud,
“Why do you ask for souls?”
He steepled fingers, straight and tall,
A posture made for judgment’s call.
“Because they’re priceless.”
“Like Bitcoin?” I quipped.
“No, not like Bitcoin.” He groaned.
“Too volatile?”
His gaze sharpened,
A ripple beneath a chasm deep.
“No. But even if you knew their value,
You wouldn’t have the means to mock.”

I grinned at that retort,
Maybe I will give mine away for free.
What’s the worth of a soul today,
In a world that trades in vanity?

“So, souls are like NFTs—
Each one unique and not fungible.
And honestly? Not worth the trade.”
The devil tilted at my thoughts displayed.
“Interesting metaphor,” he was swayed.
His nails dragged the table’s wood,
Etching runes where coffee stood.
I shrugged. “It’s simply true,
Besides, power’s nothing new.”

His lips did curl, like fate’s own game,
“Then what drives people? What motivates them?”
I tapped my phone, a simple gleam,
“Memes, mostly.”
He groaned, a hand against his brow,
“I walked into that, didn’t I now?”
I sipped my drink, content and free.
“So,” he asked, “no wishes for me to grant?”
“Dude, I am woman–
People already assume someone granted me
Everything that I have ever earned”
His fingers drummed, the wood near split,
An itch, a desire, left to rot
I watched the coffee steam, a restless youth.

“My wishes are tired, Mr. Devil.”
“Tired?” he leaned in, ember-eyed.
I exhaled, long and slow,
As if dragging muscles from my ribs.

“Yeah. Maybe it’s not the wish,
Just the weight of expecting the universe to say yes.”
“And it never does?” he asked.
I swirled my coffee, watching the bubbles fade.
“Not in the way that matters.”

“So you want nothing?” his eyes flared
“Yes, I want nothing, King Lear.” I laughed
“Not from you, Not from the stars.”
The devil’s lips curled—
“You humans are strange creatures.”
“That we are.”

He rose, fog thickening like lore,
Old as myths, and twice as sore.
As he faded, words remained,
Like embered ash within the rain:
“So I grant you nothing in exchange for your soul.”
The shadows eased back, the room exhaled.

He was gone.
Like a song that never reached its last note.
I gazed at the cup, its steam also gone,
My fingers colder than before,
But I was too weary to mourn or rage at the deception
“I thought there’d be a Homo Fuge tattoo”
Now all that’s left–
Is this hollow conclusion.