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.

Must.

Make.

Coffee.

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.