My lunch is gone. I didn’t eat it.
I carry it with me in a black lunch box. I pack the box in my red backpack every day. Each morning, I stow it in the blue cubby next to my filing cabinet. Then I boot my computer, log in, clock in, and sip my morning coffee. When I get hungry, I pull the box from its home, unzip it, and graze while I write.
Today, the lunch box was empty.
I remember packing it: a tuna salad sandwich with homemade pickles, salt and vinegar chips, and a fruit cup. I remember setting a cold pack on top of it, zipping it, and placing it in my backpack. But here it is–empty.
Is it possible that someone stole it? E—‘s out today, sick, and I haven’t seen my boss for weeks. It couldn’t have been K—; she works remotely. Could it have been T—, the janitor? I haven’t seen him this morning, either. Maybe he’s hiding somewhere, eating my tuna salad, tossing the crusts and pickles and wiping his hands on his grimy coveralls. Maybe. Or–
I reach inside the box one last time, to sweep for clues. I insert my finger, my hand, my wrist, my forearm, my shoulder.
I seem to have found a black hole.
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.