Greg stared at the coffee maker, its red light blinking like a dying firefly. He’d plugged it in three times, jiggled the cord, and even whispered, “Come on, buddy,” but the machine remained as inert as a sock in a dryer. By 7:03 a.m., his patience had hardened into a solid block of frustration.
The French press sat in its usual spot, but when Greg tried to plunge it, the plunger stuck mid-swoop, as if the device had developed a sudden aversion to teamwork. He tugged until the rubber gasket squeaked like a disgruntled raccoon. The coffee grounds, now a sludge of despair, oozed over the edge of the carafe.
By 7:15, Greg had resorted to the stove. He turned the knob to high, only to hear a pop and a faint smell of burnt hair. The burner was dead. He checked the circuit breaker—everything else was fine. The stove, it seemed, had joined a cult of inanimate objects determined to sabotage his mornings.
Desperate, Greg grabbed a mug, poured lukewarm water from the tap, and microwaved it. The oven beeped twice, then emitted a smell reminiscent of overcooked rubber ducks. He sipped the result: bitter, hot, and vaguely metallic. His cat, Sir Whiskers, watched from the counter, tail flicking like a metronome of judgment.
At 7:29, Greg gave up. He drank the sludge, squinting at the ceiling as Sir Whiskers knocked a stack of cereal boxes into a pyramid of chaos. Somewhere, a coffee bean was rolling its eyes.
