We stood in a semi-circle staring at the coffee machine. Eyes werewide, jaws drooping, faces masked in desperate disbelief. At firstglance it probably looked like a religious ritual, or as if we'dwitnessed a strange miracle--perhaps the Virgin Mary's weeping visagehad appeared in the grounds of a used filter.
We had turned the office breakroom upside down, searched every cornerand crevice, and none of us doubted there was not a scrap of coffee tobe found, not a single bean nor a dash of grounds. We were... out.Even so, the same thought echoed compulsively through our brains againand again:
We just have to make coffee.
There was nothing we could do, yet we couldn't leave; we wereparalyzed, feet rooted to the spot, white-knuckled fists clutchingempty mugs. Our minds refused to accept the situation, as if somehow,if we just concentrated, we might think of a way to alchemically turnteabags into java or boil down Coke or Pepsi into a pot full of joe.
After several silent minutes we all came to the same conclusion:
"It's sad. It's just not right," one of us muttered.
We nodded our heads in unison and walked away from the tragedy, headsbowed, lips cursing the day.
About the author:
Shane Michael Guy currently lives in Ohio, drinking hot coffee and tea as a cold Autumn wind, ignoring the stone breakwalls of Lake Erie and the ominous monoliths of the Perry Nuclear Power Plant, blows down from the North. He can also be seen lazing about, mug in hand, at places like the Shore Magazine, Flashquake, and hopefully again at Pboz.