The Account of the Noticeably Non-Black Coffee

”A coffee, please.”

”Milk?”

”Nah. I take mine dark as night, sweet as sin.”

She missed the reference and hurried off to fetch my coffee.

”Here we go,” she chirped, smiling. I handed over the exact change, the sweaty coins clicking onto the counter.

”Cheers.”

The coffee house was devoid of people and I had a free pick out of the vacant tables. I made my way to a secluded one by the window, settling down with my mug of lukewarm coffee. The thick, heady aroma soothed my pounding head as I breathed it in like nicotine; I closed my eyes and massaged my temples, ignoring the nagging voice that kept screaming at me to hurry and get back to work. I had earned this break. It was enforced by law, even.

The splashing of liquid caused me to open my eyes. A hairy hand was pouring milk into my coffee from a thermo. Confused, I followed the ripped sleeve up to a shaggy face, a white expanse of Cheshire teeth gleaming from the depths of the beard.

The teeth clacked together and words slipped between them. The words felt slightly twisted, as if the tongue wasn’t used to English. ”Sin isn’t sweet.”

”Excuse me?” My tone was flat, astonishment mulling around with my cognitive functions.

”I said, the night isn’t dark.”

”That’s not what you said at all. You said that sin isn’t sweet.”

Impossibly, the hobo’s – for he was the textbook definition of a hobo: tattered clothes, overgrown beard and outgrown mind – grin widened, and I could hear the strain in his tendons as they cracked.

”If you heard what I said, why ask me to repeat it?”

”Because,” I ground out, ”you touched my coffee with your filthy paws.”

”Yes, yes,” he agreed amiably, waving it off. ”But why ask me to repeat it?”

He wrapped his hand around my mug and took a sip of the now noticeably non-black coffee. He smacked his lips contentedly.

”Now that’s good coffee! Much better than sin, thank you nicely.”

I smiled at him. ”I’m about five seconds away from losing my temper. Put down my thrice-damned coffee and leave me be. Humor me in this and you’ll get to leave here in one piece.”

”My. But you’ve made it clear that you abhor coffee that isn’t black. Now that there’s milk in it, it’s as good as mine. It’s only logical, think you not?”

With an effort, I kept my hands from wavering, instead concentrating on applying more than the necessary amount of pressure to keep my palms on the table. I could feel a twitch tugging at the left side of my face while I fought the urge to pounce on the bastard as he sipped my coffee.

”Five,” I said.

The hobo tipped his head to me and took a noisy slurp of the disputed coffee, gargling it happily.

”Four,” I said. ”Three,” I said.

”Two,” he said, the grin now gone from his face.

”One,” I said, slowly rising from my seat. It had been a bad day. It was about to get worse, and I was positive that it wasn’t going to be my day that took the dip.

The hobo hung his head and stared hard at his palms. ”Zero. Oops, two positives make a negative,” he said, his face hidden. He lifted his sunken eyes up to mine and whispered, ”I’m sorry.”

The hushed syllables were like a solid punch to my gut. I suddenly felt sick to the stomach and before I knew it, I was on my knees, retching up my day. Events poured out of me, slapping onto the polished floor. The buzzing of my alarm was like thorns gnashing against my teeth, the waking traffic lodging in my throat. I heaved violently, dislodging blasts of horn and the churning of wheels. Clicks and clacks, shouting and nagging, my office swept by in a torrent of confusion, fast forwarded to a semblance of reality.

My hands were a teary blur in front of my face as the world shook around me. Shudders raked at my stomach, the rending talons of futility. Direction lost all sense of meaning as a swirl of color was rapidly zoomed upon and I was bodily sucked in, limbs whipping behind me.

Zap.

Now the swirl of color was emanating from me, reaching out of my temples like a magnetic field. A bed of steel was attracted by its pulses and it screeched its way to me, metal legs scraping against the mirrored ceiling-floor-wall. Its resisting was futile and I watched mutely as it howled towards me.

Time slowed down as I cast my eyes downwards, asking my reflection for help, for sense. A shaggy hobo looked up at me, his eyes the raving bloodshot holes found on druggies. It opened its beard to scream but all it could do was grin. So I grinned and watched myself turning into nothing as the bed hurtled through the space I had occupied before, slamming down onto my face.

I stared at the steel carriage above me from behind a veil and realized I was drowning. Bubbles escaped from my mouth as I scream-grinned; they floated towards the surface, fluorescent bobbing, bumping, smashing bubbles. With gasps of hope, they reached their zenith and popped.

Weary and drowning, I clambered onto the metal bed and closed my eyes. We drifted through space, and I slept.

When I woke up, I was in a coffee shop. I rubbed at my sleepy eyes and blinked at the dirt that suddenly blinded me.

”Here, have a rag to clean yourself up with.”

I cleaned my face and stared, stunned at my tattered sleeves. I lifted a shaky hand and grasped at my beard. Mirrors don’t lie. Not even dirty mirrors lie.

“What?” I stammered.

The counter-girl smiled at me warily. ”Your friend left already, but he left the coffee.”

The mug was gone. The brown coffee stood on the table, steaming hot.

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Dug this up from the internet equivalent of the deepest, lowest drawer. It's an odd work for some school assignment, the aim of which is lost to my memory. Well, hopefully a fun read anyway. Any and all feedback is appreciated. :)