Mara stared at her coffee machine, which hissed like a betrayed snake. She’d brewed 12 cups that week, but today, the machine glared back with a red error message: “PID Error.” ‘Not again,’ she groaned, slapping the side. The machine blinked, unimpressed.
She switched to the kettle, only to find it empty. ‘Oh, come ON,’ she yelled, racing to the sink. Water sprayed everywhere as she filled it, soaking her socks. The kettle whistled triumphantly. She poured it into the coffee maker, which promptly spat out a geyser of lukewarm sludge.
‘Okay, new plan,’ she muttered, grabbing the milk. The carton had gone bad, its scent wafting like a cryptid’s armpit. She tossed it, then froze. The fridge was empty except for a half-eaten sandwich and a jar of pickles that screamed “I am not expired!”
Mara stood in her kitchen, surrounded by failure, when her phone buzzed. A text: “Coffee?” from her roommate, Jess. She typed back, “No coffee. But I have existential dread.”
Five minutes later, Jess barged in, holding a mug like a trophy. “I’m making pour-over. Want to join the rebellion?”
Mara nodded, eyeing the $200 French press on the counter. “Only if you promise not to judge my 3 a.m. cereal cravings.”
Jess grinned. “Deal. But first, help me find the beans. They’re hiding again.”
They spent 15 minutes hunting for coffee, only to discover it’d been moved to the freezer for “temperature control.” Mara shook her head, laughing. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
Jess poured the water, and the room filled with the aroma of toasted nuts and hope. Mara sipped, then groaned. “This is better than my life.”
Jess raised her mug. “To bad days that turn into weirdly good mornings.”
Mara clinked hers, thinking, “Maybe coffee isn’t the problem. Maybe I’m just a work in progress.”
