I took a table near the window. Sipping a Vietnamese coffee, I savored its bitter, almost earthy undertones, combined with the sweetened condensed milk, a veritable flavor utopia. The last time I’d escaped hell was in the 1960s and I fell in love with this French Vietnamese creation. The little things are what a girl misses when condemned to eternity.<br/><br/>Forty minutes slowly rolled by as she sat enjoying the smell of Noir and the sight of the occasional passer by on the streets outside. She’d abandoned her luggage in the airport and purchased fresh clothing. She’d changed at the hostel. Standing up, she walked into the bathroom and carefully deposited her carryon in the bin. Then she emptied her little black purse.<br/><br/>Pausing, she frowned. She really liked her purse. Surely vintage in this present time, a Julius Resnick black taffeta change-purse taken off a woman she had gutted in 1962. Unfortunately, she had lost control and transformed into demonic form. The end result was that she had been forcibly retrieved and deported back to hell. She dropped it into the bin also. The last item she had on her person from hell.<br/><br/>Walking back into the shop, she smiled and vowed, “<i>I won’t let the pressures build up like last time. I’ll make sure to feed my needs and I won’t transform. Maybe, I’ll become part of the demimonde.”</i>She laughed. The idea of a half-demon being part of the pleasure loving dangerous half-world of sexual excesses amused her.<br/><br/>A moment later, the little bell on the door of the café rang as she walked outside the shop and did a little spin on her heels, causing her skirt to flutter. Her dark eyes glanced around as if searching for something. Then she shrugged and turned to leave.