There once was a girl who loved iced coffee so much and so obsessively that she dreamt of it and woke up saying its name. Before she knew it, she was drinking three a day: one grabbed from Pret A Manger en route to work, one at 10am from the deli downstairs, or Starbucks (coffee part 2), and one mid-afternoon fix for no good reason whatsover.

She preferred it VERY specifically: drowning, CLUTTERED with ice – about 70% ice, 30% actual coffee. She preferred it so she could consume the drink in it’s entirety during the walk back to work. She preferred it with skim milk and one splenda; she liked it so cold it burned her hands.

This girl loved iced coffee so terribly that one time, in Rome, when she could not find it and was tired of yelling FREGGO to confused Italian waiters – she purchased separately a large cup of ice and a 3 doppio’s. Stirring, shaking, waiting, she finally got her fix. French people starred. What the f*#k is wrong with Americans? ( I don’t know, the French. I really don’t know. It’s just who I am.)

One day, recently, she sat down to crunch the numbers of her tepid affair. Shocked, she was, at the result: 1,095 iced coffees a year. $2,190 on sweet cold Joe. Starring at the reality of these figures, she realized that she kind of wanted an iced coffee.

She checked the clock. 9pm.

Hmm.

So she put on pants and went to get it.