"Shit! Awww! Fuck!" I curse so violently that Mike, on the other side of the line begins to laugh.

"Wha' is it, Chris? Missed a nice hitch hiker, did ya?"

Hissing while the steaming hot coffee runs down my lap and soaks the cotton of my working clothes, I bite through clenched teeth:

"The coffee fell over. It's bloody hot! Oh - shit."

I hear Mike laugh again.

"Wha'?"

"I look like I've wet myself."

"Keep your eyes on the road, luv." He tells me.

"Shut up, Mike." I retaliate moody.

Great, just bloody great. A wet uniform, soon to be sticky from the sugar I use and an entire day ahead.

"Chris?" Mike again.

"What?!"

"Maybe there's some dry clothing in the back of the van."

I feel regret for snarling at him. He's not such a bad guy, once you get to know him.

"Okay, I can't pull over now but I'll take a look at the first stop. Thanks, Mike."

"Ta, luv."

I drive the Kangoo van to the first address on my list and park the car in a small parking lot. I feel like a little kid when I get out of the van and walk over to the door on the right side, legs wide apart, coffee dripping into my socks.

To my relief I find a pair of overalls, old and a bit musty, stashed away between the parcels and the spare tire. It's too big but as the cold of the winter day already begins to settle in the wetness of the fresh coffee stains, I have little objections. This will do, for now anyway.

It's a Tuesday morning, early still. There's no one around to see me, clumsily fiddling with the green uniform to peel it off and step into the dry overalls. I keep looking around for unwanted viewers, feeling ridiculous as I stand there. I take my chances on changing in the opened side door of the Kangoo. If anyone should see me in my underwear, it won't be for more than ten seconds.

I hop around on one leg, shoe stuck in the pants and a curse bubbles up again. But then, finally, the wet stuff is in a bundle on the ground and I button up the blue cotton overalls. I smell like a furniture mover suddenly. Yagh.

Holding the parcel in my hand, wrapped in brown paper, I climb the stairs and ring the doorbell of the only apartment in this peculiar building. It must have been a boat-house once, turned into an actual living area by a broker with a weird sense of humour: directly opposite a large graveyard.

No one opens the door. I ring again, but I know in advance there's no one home and it's a futile thing to do - company procedure. The postman always rings twice.

Very unlike me, I do something completely against the rules. I decide to leave the parcel there, I put it on the doorstep so that the rightful owner sees it the minute he walks in. Standard procedure is to take it back to the company and try again at a later time. But this time I guess I'm moody and cranky from the coffee and the uncomfortable stiff overalls and I think to myself, sod the rules, sod the stupid parcel.

I rattle down the metal staircase when my conscience calls me back. I stop, slowly turning around and feeling my mood turning even darker. I've got to get the parcel back and do as I'm supposed to do. I sigh, swallowing another word that doesn't fit in the standard lexicon of Decent and Educated English and climb the stairs again.

At the door, I bend over and pick it up when suddenly, faster than lighting, I get dragged inside and shoved against the wall. A strong arm pushes against my larynx and another hand twists my right arm painfully aside.

"Who are you?!" hisses a voice in my ear. A warm breath with a scent of mint touches my cheek. It's too dark to see the man's face. Despite a rapidly rising panic I recognise "Dolce and Gabbana" after-shave.

"Who sent you?!"

"What?! Auw! You're hurting me!" I croak, my voice barely audible because of the tight grip around my throat.

I'm scared shitless now. Who is this lunatic?! Why is he molesting me? What's happening?

"What's your name?" he demands to know, his voice still very close and very threatening.

"Chris!" I squeak frightened.

He increases the pressure on my throat, the arm squeezing me harder. I see stars appearing that I haven't seen before.

"I know my name - I'm asking yours!" he says.

With all the power I can gather, fed by adrenaline and panic, I suddenly raise my knee.

Bingo! A well-placed knee in the groin is enough to make him double over and he lets go of me by reflex.

I hear him moan, but I don't wait to see the result of my actions. I jump forwards, to the light of the landing, when his hands grab my feet. I lose my balance and feel the floor disappearing from under my feet.

Then the lights go out.

"Awww?fuck?" I feel a brass band drumming around in my head. Have I been drinking that much yesterday evening? Light of day tickles my eyelids and reluctantly I try to open my eyes. A light touch of nausea rises before the sensation of panic reaches the surface again. That man!

I open my eyes now, wide and in fear - and look into a pair of friendly deep blue eyes. As I try to struggle to sit up, he pushes me back gently and shakes his head. I recognise a minted scent and a fragrance of quality after-shave.

"Stay down. You hit your head."

Things fall into place rapidly.

"I hit my head? You choked me - you bastard," I croak, my voice not sounding like my own. I push away his hands and try to get up, but the room moves faster than a merry-go-round and I close my eyes to fight the dizziness.

"Easy. I'm sorry. I was wrong." The hands urge me back to a lying position again.

I feel he pushes a glass in my hands, keeping his fingers around mine to keep me from trembling and drop the glass.

"Drink it. You need it," he commands me, pushing the glass towards my lips.

I expect tea or coffee but it's strong liquor and I hit the glass away vigorously. As it hits the floor, it splatters out into tiny fragments.

"Lemme go!" I cry out in panic. "I wanna get out of here!"

He grabs my upper arms firmly, but with unexpected gentleness and makes me face him.

"It's alright. You can go. But your legs and your head don't agree - not just yet. Come on - give me a chance to make up for my mistake."

I relax, still scared but the panic subsides. I take a closer look around me.

I'm lying on a couch, pillows supporting me. The apartment looks messy but nice and so does my host. A crumpled T-shirt, hair standing straight up and stubble covering his chin. He has nice eyes - they radiate his guilt. They bloody well better do!

He grins, a bit sheepishly, this time. Amazing dimples appear. Not bad - not bad at all. The panic is gone, the scared feeling disappearing too.

"I'm in security business. I thought the parcel contained something else."

I mumble something.

"Pardon?" he asks politely.

"I was wondering if you thought it was a bomb." I repeat, louder this time.

To my surprise, he looks caught-in-the-act. I'll be damned - he did expect a bomb.

"I saw you changing your clothes. Why was that?" again I get a drink, but this time I don't hit it away and carefully take a sip. The stuff is filthy and strong and burns inside.

"I knocked over full cup of coffee. Wet to the skin, I was." I sigh and quiver from the taste of the alcohol. I give him the glass that he puts back on the table.

"This was dry? and as I still have the day ahead of me and have no intention of getting my bladder catching a cold?" I don't finish my sentence.

He nods, and helps me sit up.

"The letters on the van, BPS? What does it stand for?" he wants to know as he disappears into the kitchen and re-appears ten seconds later with a towel and ice.

As he presses it against the sore spot on my forehead, I'm once again amazed by his tenderness. He's careful, his fingers probe the bruise cautiously and very slowly he presses the instant ice-pack on my warm head. He takes my hand and makes me hold the pack in place. I tremble as his fingers lightly touch me and he does not take away his hand.

"Bits Per Second? Beauty Per Smile?"

To my rising eyebrows, he laughs. A sensation rushes through me that I find totally disturbing but very nice at the same time. He's one lively character, this man.

"Billing's Parcel Service." I answer. I move my head slowly. His fingers don't leave mine.

"Sore?"

"Mmm."

"I'm really very sorry." He continues, and his regret is obvious - very obvious. He clearly expected something else than just a book. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Mmm." Damned, why don't I know what to say now? I'm never lost for words. Why does this man make me feel so much like a girl with a teenage crush all of a sudden?

"What's your name?"

"Chris." I answer. To his surprised look I add: "Short for Christina."

He chuckles.

"Mine's Chris too. Short for Chris."

I begin to realise what he must have seen. Somebody arriving in a van, changing clothes in broad daylight, looking around all guilty several times, putting down a brown paper parcel at his doorstep, leaving, coming back again - no wonder he was being suspicious.

"The parcel freaked you out?" I ask, glad that I finally have my speech back.

"Yeah - a bit, I must admit. And then you said my name?"

"I didn't. You asked me mine."

We both laugh, a bit awkward with the situation. He has a nice American accent and he lisps a bit - it makes the hair in my neck rise, just to hear him talking.

I have no need at all to leave him, but my sense of duty decides to call upon me right now. I swing my legs down and slowly I rise to my feet.

He does the same. He is taller than I am. Well built. Very well built! Strong, muscular arms, tight jeans revealing ditto legs. Is it the headache or the funny, energetic face that makes my knees falter? I honestly can't tell.

He grabs my elbow.

"Sure you want to go? Sure you're alright?" he asks, worriedly.

"Yeah - sure." I offer him a reassuring smile. Tell me to stay - tell me I should stay a little longer.

But he only nods to my smile. He guides me to the front door, down the stairs and to the van. As I open the door, the smell of the spilled coffee reaches us. I grin, shrugging my shoulders.

"Coffee?" I say with an apologising smile.

To my surprise, he suddenly kisses me. His lips touch mine, so lightly that I just as well might have been imagining he did.

"Take care, Chris." He says and closes the door of the van. I wave at him and he does the same. Then he turns and bounces his way back to his apartment. My hands feel sweaty and they tremble. My heart is doing a cha cha cha in my chest. My stomach twists and shouts. My knees belong to Shakin' Stevens.

In the car mirror I see the reflection of the smile that accompanies my thoughts.

How can I live without coffee?