The Sky Hit the Ground
We Finished Our Coffee Anyway
The sky fell on a Tuesday morning, right between the espresso machine and the sugar dispenser.
It came down in pieces, like shattered glass, but soft. You could catch it in your hands if you wanted to. Most of us didn't bother.
I was at my usual table, corner seat, window view. The barista, a kid named Marcus with a nose ring and tired eyes, was wiping down the counter when the first piece landed. It made a sound like a sigh.
"Sky's falling," he said.
He didn't look up. He kept wiping.
I watched through the window. Outside, the horizon was lower than it should have been. The buildings on the other side of the street were half-buried in blue. Not water-blue. Sky-blue. The color of morning, pooled on the sidewalk like spilled paint.
A woman walked through it. She stepped over a chunk of cloud the size of a car tire. Her heels clicked on the pavement. She was talking on her phone.
"Yeah, I'll be there in ten," she said. "No, the usual traffic. You know how it is."
She didn't mention the sky.
Marcus poured my latte. The foam was perfect, a little heart on top. He set it down in front of me. The sky fragment on the counter glittered.
"You want me to sweep that up?" I asked.
"Nah," he said. "Landlord says it's not our responsibility. Falls under 'act of god.'"
I stirred my coffee. The spoon made a soft clink against the ceramic. Outside, a bus drove through a drift of atmosphere. The wheels sank into it, came out the other side. The passengers kept reading their books.
My phone buzzed. A text from my boss.
Meeting at 9. Don't be late.
I typed back. On my way.
I didn't mention the sky.
There was a man at the next table. Older, gray suit, briefcase at his feet. He was reading the newspaper. An actual newspaper, folded in quarters. I hadn't seen anyone do that in years.
A piece of sky landed on his shoulder. It sat there, shimmering. He brushed it off absently, like it was dandruff. It fell to the floor and dissolved into nothing.
"Big game last night?" I asked him. I don't know why. I don't even know what game it would have been.
He looked up. His eyes were the same color as the sky outside. Maybe that was always true. Maybe I just noticed now.
"Yankees lost," he said.
"Shame."
"Always is."
He went back to his paper. I went back to my coffee.
The door opened. A woman came in, shaking a umbrella. It wasn't raining. It never rains anymore. Not since the sky started coming down. She hung the umbrella on the rack and ordered a cappuccino.
"Rough morning?" Marcus asked her.
"You know how it is," she said.
Yeah. We all knew how it was.
I finished my coffee. The last sip was lukewarm. I set the cup down. The sky fragment on the counter had shrunk. It was evaporating, or melting, or whatever sky does when it touches the earth.
"Same time tomorrow?" Marcus asked.
"Same time tomorrow," I said.
I stood up. My chair scraped against the floor. The sound was normal. Solid. Real.
Outside, the sky was lower than it had been when I came in. Maybe another inch. Maybe another foot. It was hard to tell. The buildings were disappearing, one floor at a time.
A man in a hard hat was measuring it with a tape measure. He wrote something on a clipboard. He didn't look worried.
I walked to work. The sidewalk was slick with atmosphere. My shoes left prints in it. Behind me, the prints filled in, like water closing over a stone.
At the office, everyone was at their desks. The fluorescent lights hummed. The printer jammed in the corner. Someone was microwaving fish in the break room.
My boss called me into his office. He was standing by the window, looking out at the city. The sky was at eye level now. You could touch it if you leaned out.
"Quarterly reports," he said. "I need them by noon."
"Of course," I said.
He turned around. There was a piece of sky caught in his hair. It sparkled like glitter.
"Big weekend?" he asked.
"Quiet," I said. "You?"
"Same."
He sat down. I sat down. I opened my laptop. The screen flickered. The wifi was spotty when the sky was close. Something about interference.
At lunch, I went back to the café. Marcus was there. The sky fragment on the counter was gone. There was a new one by the register.
"The usual?" he asked.
"The usual," I said.
I sat at my table. The window was half-covered now. The street outside was a tunnel of blue. Cars drove through it, headlights on, even though it was midday.
The man with the newspaper was gone. In his place, a woman typing on a laptop. She didn't look up when another piece fell. It landed on her keyboard. She brushed it off and kept typing.
My phone buzzed again. Another text from my boss.
Don't forget the 3pm meeting.
I typed back. I won't.
I didn't mention the sky.
By evening, it was at knee level. People walked through it like it was fog. Some carried it on their shoulders, on their hair, on their coats. No one brushed it off anymore.
I went home. My apartment was on the fourth floor. The elevator was working. The lights were on. The neighbor's dog was barking behind a closed door.
I made dinner. Pasta. Jar sauce. Garlic bread from the freezer. I ate at my small table, alone, the way I always did.
The news was on. The anchor was talking about interest rates. About a celebrity divorce. About the weather.
"Partly cloudy," she said. "Chance of precipitation low."
She didn't mention the sky.
I washed my dishes. I dried my hands. I stood by the window and looked out.
The sky was everywhere now. It filled the street. It filled the space between buildings. It filled the air I breathed.
I could touch it. I did. It was warm. It was soft. It was the color of morning, of memory, of things we pretend we don't miss.
Tomorrow, it would be lower. Maybe it would be at our waists. Maybe at our chests. Maybe it would cover us entirely.
I turned off the light. I went to bed. I pulled the covers up to my chin.
In the morning, I would wake up. I would make coffee. I would walk to the café. Marcus would be there. The sky would be waiting.
And we would finish our coffee anyway.
Because that's what we do.
That's what we've always done.
The world ends in pieces, and we stir our coffee, and we say same time tomorrow, and we mean it.
Even when tomorrow looks nothing like today.
Even when the sky is gone.
About the Creator
Edward Smith
I can write on ANYTHING & EVERYTHING from fictional stories,Health,Relationship etc. Need my service, email [email protected] to YOUTUBE Channels https://tinyurl.com/3xy9a7w3 and my Relationship https://tinyurl.com/28kpen3k
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