Haunted Mourning Brew

Sleepily, I reach for the filters; stuck together like a tuft of paper rosebud petals. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans creates a sense of excitement rich with anticipation. It feels like an eternity of incoherent torture until I wake up from this familiar dream.

I glance at my beloved coffee machine, morning light gleaming in the chrome reflection. I love this maker of magic concoctions and I’m not sure what I’d do without it. With my favorite mug in hand, I pour a cup if aromatic perfection, confident today will be the best day. I just need a sip of morning bliss.

To the refrigerator I go. A cup of coffee without creamer is nearly a fate worse than death. Just the thought of it evokes a repulsive reaction to the bitter, liquid darkness. The creaking of the door sends unsettling chills down my spine as my heart drops to the depths of my stomach, my face is cold and growing paler by the second. Dread and horror fill my body. I plant my feet firmly to the ground, fighting the urge to pass out from disbelief.

No creamer.

I slam the refrigerator door shut with a hint of force, expressing my frustration. I mean, I didn’t push it too hard. I’d say I was gentle enough, considering the circumstances. Then, in a single moment of unexpected chaos, a jar from the top of the refrigerator falls, knocking the coffee maker to the ground, shattering it into a burning hot puddle of glass.

Perhaps I should have made tea instead.