Coffee for One, Please

The break room in our office smells like a high school locker room.
There is a delicate mixture of that sweat sock smell and a deodorant to
cover that smell up. While I doubt anyone showers or even sweats in our
break room, the scent is still unmistakable. Its origin is probably
from the leaky ceiling, which resembles a pair of panties on a heavy
day, or perhaps the stench comes from the stagnated water in the bucket
catching the leak. It's not even raining half the time, so I'm still in
awe at the amount of water that is seemingly generated out of thin air.
It's as if this place squeezes the moisture out of us and collects it,
and the remnants are then poured into a giant generator in the basement
of the corporation by a cackling gimp in a leather hood, bathed in the
orange glow of the life energy sucked from us daily. Or perhaps it's
simply a faulty cooling pipe. One can never tell anymore.

I make my way over to the coffee maker. It's a useful little machine,
very innovative. The coffee comes in pre-made containers. You simply
pop one of the canisters into the maker, press a button and in minutes,
you, too, can have a semi-fresh brewed cup of coffee. I need my coffee
in the morning. I'm grumpy in general, but without my fix, even I don't
know what I'll do.

Ah, the smell of coffee. I can't even begin to describe it. In my
apartment, I keep open bags of coffee grounds out, just to immerse
myself in it. My clothes all smell like the bean, and these are the
moments I live for. I take deep breaths in rhythm to the straw sucking
sound of coffee being brewed and start to disappear like it's Friday
afternoon.

First, I name every granule of sugar in the bowl and we form an army,
on our mission to attack the senses. On our way, we run across the
Spoon Brigade, with the Stirrer Calvary. They are formidable foes, but
nothing in comparison to the likes of Charlie Fructose and Paul
Saccharine, my crystalline brethren. Within minutes, we reach the Java
Gateway and immediately, we dissolve into the ceramic floor, swirling
and drowning in a brown, creamy cloud. I have never been happier.

"Bob, you're spilling coffee everywhere!"

Great. It's Susan. She's really fucking with my high.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Susan. I must have dozed off."

Yes. Laugh it up, you pathetic schmuck. God, you have the worst sense
of humor I've ever seen.

"Oh, Bob, you're a hoot."

What the fuck is a hoot? God, I want to poke stirrers in her ears.
Please, let me poke stirrers in her ears.

"Would you like to sit with me, Bob. I don't feel like going back to my
desk right now."

Susan is batting her eyes at me. God dammit, she is flirting with me. I
really can't take much more of this.

"No thanks, Susan. I have a very important project to finish today.
I'll just take this back with me."

I start to walk out and can feel her eyes staring at my ass. Now I know
how women must feel. I can barely stand to look at her, much less
interact with her. Why doesn't she get it? I thought they could read
our minds. They sure as fuck think we can read theirs. As I leave, I
catch a whiff of her cheap perfume, to the point where I can actually
taste it. I want to retch, right there, all over her makeup caked face.
I'd tell her it was an accident, then laugh, and say, "Susan, you're
such a hoot!"

Instead, I just sit at my desk and stare blankly at my monitor.