We stood in a semi-circle staring at the coffee machine. Eyes were wide, jaws drooping, faces masked in desperate disbelief. At first glance it probably looked like a religious ritual, or as if we'd witnessed a strange miracle--perhaps the Virgin Mary's weeping visage had appeared in the grounds of a used filter.
We had turned the office breakroom upside down, searched every corner and crevice, and none of us doubted there was not a scrap of coffee to be found, not a single bean nor a dash of grounds. We were... out. Even so, the same thought echoed compulsively through our brains again and again:
We.
Must.
Make.
Coffee.
We just have to make coffee.
There was nothing we could do, yet we couldn't leave; we were paralyzed, feet rooted to the spot, white-knuckled fists clutching empty mugs. Our minds refused to accept the situation, as if somehow, if we just concentrated, we might think of a way to turn teabags into java by alchemy, 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, heads bowed, lips cursing the day.
Originally published in Pindeldyboz online.