I am in the kitchen, reading a cookbook. Jacobo is making noises in the living room, putting together model airplane kits. Marco is busying himself with the coffee machine. Marco, I think, could easily afford a much nicer machine that would take care of things for him. He enjoys the work. The coffee he makes is quite good.

He has made us each a small cup, and puts them on saucers and then to the table, with little spoons. He is rummaging in the cabinet, and stands up with a small bottle of clear spirit. He carefully pours a dollop into each cup, and then slides mine towards me until it is touching the pages of the cookbook.

He gives his cup a lazy stir with his spoon, and nods to me. "Tell me," he says. "Do you have a desire?"

The spoon is small, and quite plain. There is nothing stamped on the handle, just simple metal. I send the coffee in a careful circle, and the perfume of the anise rises up, heated by the coffee. I somehow know not to reach for the sugar.

I shrug. "I'm not sure."

"Something," he says, waving expansively with the spoon. "Is there a thing in you, deeply?" He frowns a moment. "Is there one thing over all else?"

I try the coffee. It is deepened and sweetened by the addition, full on the tongue and heady, rich. It is new to me, and the novelty stops me, and I am making plans, now, that once I am done with this cup I will sometime have another.

"What do you do?" I ask him.

Marco thinks about that. "You have never before asked me this."

"No," I said, "it somehow always seemed unkind to." The coffee is so very good.

Marco is interested. "This is your desire, then?"

I am looking at the coffee. "No."

There is a clatter and swearing from the living room. If we are lucky, Jacobo has only glued his fingers to each other this time, and not to his cheek.

Marco rises, and smoothes the front of his shirt with his hands. "I will make more," he says.