Coffee

Humans evolved to band together,

To help one another survive the blows

Of heedless nature and fierce animals

And avaricious other humans.

•

But let’s trash that for adolescent

“Freedom” and irresponsibility.

•

Yeah, that’s the ticket. Right.

____________________________________________________

You can’t hate everyone and expect them to help you when you need help.

____________________________________________________

Coffee

The camera above the counter blinked red. Its eye fixed the diner in a steady, mechanical gaze. Next to the cash register, a pot of coffee hissed on its ring, bubbling tar-black. The handle was slick with grease and syrup. One drop fell, spurted, and vanished.

The nurse sat in the corner booth, still in scrubs, her badge flipped backward on its clip. She was eating toast, slowly. Her mask hung from one ear. Her eyes were fixed on her phone.

The man at the counter was talking incessantly. A lavalier microphone was clipped to his collar. A GoPro hung from a neck rig. His portable coffee mug said Don’t Tread On Me. His tee shirt read Unmasked — Unafraid — Uncancellable. On his computer screen, the livestream chat scrolled:

“TRUTH BOMB INCOMING”

“Tell it bro!!”

“Sheeple REKT.”

“Look at this,” he said, lifting his phone to the lens. “Cat videos. Just to suck you in.”

He panned the booths. In one was a teenager slunk down behind his milkshake. In another was a woman with her baby, who waved away the attention.

“Sheeple don’t like light,” he said. “That nurse over there—” He jerked his thumb. “Still muzzled. It’s over, lady. Wake up. You lost.”

The waitress froze by the napkin dispenser as the short-order cook leaned forward behind the pass-through. The coffee pot continued spitting and puffing smoke.

The nurse didn’t answer. Her fingers tightened around the straw. She stirred her coffee without looking up. A muscle twitched along her jaw.

“She won’t talk,” he said. “They never talk. Just obey. That’s the real sickness. Obedience. To the system. To the media. To the deep state.”

He leaned toward the mic. “But not here. Here, we breathe free.”

He sucked in a theatrical breath—and choked.

A sudden cough tore loose. He laughed, then doubled over. The cough turned raw. His face flushed red. One eye streamed. He reached for water, knocked over the mug. Coffee spread in a brown fan across the counter, heading toward the livestream rig.

“Turn it off,” someone said.

The chat kept scrolling:

“You ok bro?”

“LMAO he got the rona”

“RIP freedom.”

He staggered toward the bathroom, coughing wet and loud. His chest hitched like a bellows. The coughing followed—deep, ragged, unstoppable. The camera stayed on.

The waitress unplugged it. The red light blinked and died.

The nurse stood. She left a folded bill under the plate and walked out. The bell above the door rang once.

The coffee pot kept hissing. No one turned it off.

A smear of spit mixed with coffee crusted over the GoPro lens.