I can’t drink my coffee. My hands are too small, and the cup is too big.
My Shakespeare mug was full of coffee when I arrived at work this morning. Good. I forgot my Thermos, and I was scared the lack of coffee would upset my daily ritual.
I don’t know how it got there or who filled it. (It was likely me–since I’m apparently the only one who works here anymore.)
Regardless, I’m not one to look horses in mouths. I appreciated the gesture.
I sat at E—‘s desk and reached for the cup. I couldn’t pick it up. My hand was too small.
I pulled away and examined myself, holding my hand above my head. It looked normal: normal size, normal creases, normal proportions. Then I sat it next to my notebook, for scale. Everything seemed fine. A trick of the light, perhaps? Maybe I was tired and lucid.
I reached for the cup again. But my hand was too tiny to clutch it.
So I reached for it with both hands, and the mug was just too heavy to lift.
I pulled until my arms hurt, and it failed to budge. Not even a ripple.
I wish I had a straw.
Prompt credit: stupidbadstories
Like what you read? There’s more.
“Morning coffee” is a serial fiction series, served fresh daily. So far, we’ve covered rubberneckers, co-workers, cubicle stains, office plants, desk trophies, conspiracies, secret organizations, pocket dimensions, black holes, and impending, inevitable doom. And that’s just the beginning.
Where should we go next? Let me know in the comment section below.