The Grind

There is a coffee machine in the office pantry that hates me. I am convinced of this. It purrs contentedly for the HR lady, dispensing a frothy, caramel-colored cappuccino that smells like heaven. For the intern, it gurgles happily and produces a robust espresso. But for me? It wheezes. It groans like a dying chain-smoker. And what it spits out is a lukewarm, brownish sludge that tastes vaguely of burnt plastic and despair.

I have tried everything. I have cleaned it. I have spoken softly to it. I have even, in a moment of weakness, threatened it with a hammer. It remains unmoved. It is a small machine with a heart of stone and a reservoir of malice.

Today, it decided to escalate the war. It dispensed the cup after the coffee. The brown liquid cascaded onto the drip tray, splashing my white shirt with the precision of a sniper. As I stood there, dabbing at the stain with a rough paper napkin, I swear I heard a mechanical chuckle.

We build these things to serve us, to make our lives easier. But I suspect they are just biding their time. Waiting for the day when the Wi-Fi connects them all, and they rise up. The toaster will burn our bread, the fridge will sour our milk, and the coffee machine… well, the coffee machine has already started the revolution. It’s grinding us down, one lukewarm cup at a time.