The break room smelled faintly of burnt toast and secrets. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like anxious bees. At the center of it all sat Marla, hunched over a chipped ceramic mug, swirling the last inch of coffee like it held the answers to everything.
She squinted into the sediment. Grounds clung to the porcelain like constellations. “Real,” she whispered. “Human. Messy. Thank God.”
Across the room, the others sipped from their sterile pods—perfect and clean, no residue. Too clean. Too quiet. Their smiles didn’t reach their eyes. Their eyes didn’t blink.
Marla had been watching. The pod people never spilled. Never slurped. Never sighed after a sip. They just… consumed. Efficiently. Like algorithms in khakis.
But this cup—this glorious, gritty cup—was a sign. Someone else was still real. Someone else still brewed by hand, still believed that chaos should leave a trail.
She slid the mug across the table to the janitor, who raised an eyebrow. “You’re not one of them,” she said. “You leave grounds.”
He nodded slowly. “And you stir counterclockwise.”
1 comment:
I really miss the smell of percolated coffee in the morning. I wonder if I could buy one at a garage sale?? Then of course, I would have to fry up some bacon!!
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