This short story explores the protagonists struggle to complete a simple task like getting a coffee. The struggle is representative of the wider problem she has interacting with the world. She finds it hard to relate to the reality in which she finds herself and feels disconnected. The caffeine is the drug she uses to help ease her pain. Fully caffeinated she can dull the noise from world and focus on her own reality. She keeps her aggression in check by accenting it with playful jokes and observations that are kept between her and her self-talk. The story is a train of thought from her head.
The accompanying images were generated by the AI at https://www.unstability.ai/ The AI was fed a one line description of a scenes or a character. There’s no edits to the images other than cropping. The text is not AI generated or enhanced.
Getting Coffee
‘National slow down day’ the digital motorway sign says. How about ‘National get the fuck out of my way day’ she jokes to herself as she guns the engine to try and indicate to the idiot in front of her that she wants to get by. The road’s not even busy so why are you even in this lane? She thinks. It’s because you’re asleep, like the rest of the world – oblivious. A few undertaking manoeuvres later she pulls into the parking lot of the shopping centre. It looks like a large white fridge perched on the intersection of multiple motorways. Endless asphalt arteries transporting caffeine fuelled morons into oblivion. If there’s a place in the universe without soul, this is it.
All of this would be easier if her caffeine levels were not so depleted. She made the mistake of leaving home without a balancing cup. She can’t quite believe it when she sees her dependable brand of coffee advertised at the front door. It’s the same name alright but she knows it won’t be the same as the original. A haven found back in her youth when there was just one of things. One place by the water, one that produced coffee perfect every time, one where nobody spoke too much, one normal place to go. Why does everything have to multiply? What’s wrong with one great thing? Still, any swill will do at this stage.
The décor is trying hard to be classy and accepting to all. Her first instruction is delivered by a sticker on the glass, it’s advising her to wear a mask while queueing. Surely not again! She panics. Looking around, She immediately calms, realising nobody is wearing one. That time has passed, that period where your breathing was regulated and legislated. The very fresh looking sticker has not been removed by the establishment. If she ever had a place like this, such a sign would not exist a nanosecond longer than was legally required. She fantasises about the sticker burning ceremony, akin to the suffragettes or the bra burnings of the seventies. Freedooooom!
The queue is long and seems to be taking an age to move. There’s never a queue in the original one. Maybe she’s made a mistake and should go to some other establishment where there is no queue, but in that moment the person in front of her takes a step forward. She decides that she’s being too uptight and reminds herself of her commitment to go with the flow.
The three young adults at the top of the line seem to be taking a long time to get their drinks. She wonders if there should be a separate queue for adults who insist on having hot milk in their coffee and a pretty heart shape on top. Next in the queue, directly in front of her, The man with the child places his order. The digital screen shows an oat milk supplement and a kids drink also made of oat milk. Poor kid, She wonders what other bullshit the kid is learning from him.
Finally it’s her turn to order. ‘Americano please, large to go‘. Cash ready, she hands 3.50 the exact fee over. Not long now. The trio at the top of the queue are still faffing with their lids, holders, toppings and straws, Straws! The server indicates which cup has caramel and which has cinnamon. She closes here eyes and inhales a calming breath. Literally seconds to go, she meditates, nothing can deplete the remainder of her tank now.
‘Qwa-sant’, she hears the person behind her say. Her exhale comes out as a resigning sigh. It’s one of those people who heavily emphasise the ‘Qua‘ sound. It’s a fucking Croissant! as in Cross, as in what Jesus fucking Christ was nailed to. She thinks aggressively to herself. She knows a guy who hates croissants simply because of people who pronounce it like that. Imagine being put off your food by the way someone says its name – that’s fucking commitment! The guy even refuses go to France! She had to tell him they don’t say it like that there.
She doesn’t want to see the face of the ‘Qwa-sant‘ eater, but she can’t help herself. She pivots her whole body on the ball of her foot and casually observes the half-wit. The lanyard around his neck has an access card and a bunch of additional flair, badges and other hilarious items. She can’t look away, like a moth staring at a light she’s transfixed. He loiters, rocking on this heals, blocking the walkway, unaware that Oatmilk-man and child are trying to get passed him. Another beneficiary for ‘National get the fuck out of my way day.’ She thinks, remembering her earlier humour.
‘Americano‘. The coffee server shouts, She swings back around to see her paper cup of joy waiting. Finally, the world will be ok now.
The end.
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Another flash fiction story accompanied by AI generated images is available here. Hunger
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