He drank the last drop, again, and walked out like it was nothing—like the steaming, empty coffee pot didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter.
I stared at the machine, the glass bottom bone-dry, heat still rising from where his cup had stolen the last of the brew. He didn’t look back. He never did. And just like every Monday before it, the job of cleaning up his mess was silently passed to me.
But this time, I didn’t make another pot.
I made a plan.
He had no idea his lazy little ritual was about to backfire in the most beautiful, humiliating way—one that would leave everyone buzzing and him scrambling to recover. Justice was coming, and this time, someone else wasn’t going to get it.
The Daily Grind and the Gathering Storm: The Ritual of the Empty Pot
The fluorescent lights of the Sterling Solutions eighth floor hummed their usual Monday morning dirge. I squinted at my monitor, the project timeline for the “Synergy Initiative” blurring into a familiar headache. It was 8:53 AM. My internal clock, finely tuned by years of corporate life and two cups of coffee before my commute, was screaming for its third.
I pushed back my chair, the wheels catching on the worn carpet patch I’d been meaning to report for months. The breakroom beckoned. Or, more accurately, the promise of caffeine did.
And there it was. Gleaming under the harsh lights, accusingly empty: the communal coffee pot. Again.
A familiar sigh escaped me. It wasn’t just any empty pot. This was a Mark Carmichael special.
I didn’t even need to see him slink away this time. The man treated the coffee machine like his personal Keurig, always managing to pour the last drop. He would then vanish like a caffeine-fueled Houdini.
He left the responsibility of brewing a fresh pot to the next poor soul. Which, invariably, was me or Brenda from Accounting.
This wasn’t just about coffee. It was about respect. Or the distinct lack thereof.
Sterling Solutions was drowning in deadlines for the Synergy Initiative. It was a massive company-wide overhaul Mr. Henderson, our VP of Operations, was spearheading. Stress levels were high enough to power a small city.
The last thing anyone needed was this petty, daily erosion of morale. This tiny, insistent betrayal screamed, “My time is more important than yours. My needs trump common courtesy.”
Today, something in me snapped. It was the third Monday in a row. The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of it.
I could almost hear my husband, Tom, saying, “Just let it go, Sarah. It’s not worth the energy.” But Tom didn’t have to navigate this particular brand of workplace apathy.
Lily, our perpetually dramatic teenager, would probably find it all deeply symbolic of societal decay. Maybe she wasn’t wrong.
Whispers by the Water Cooler
I started the new pot, the gurgle of the machine a small comfort. Brenda shuffled in, her face a mask of weary resignation that mirrored my own internal state most mornings. She was a lifer at Sterling, seen it all, and her tolerance for office nonsense was legendary, mostly because she’d run out of damns to give somewhere around 2008.
“Morning, Sarah,” she mumbled, peering into the now-filling pot with the hope of a desert wanderer spotting an oasis.
“Morning, Brenda. Guess who?” I said, nodding towards the empty sugar canister Mark also had a habit of neglecting to refill.
Brenda didn’t even need to ask. “Carmichael. Figures.” She sighed, leaning against the counter.
“Heard he’s Henderson’s golden boy for the Synergy pitch in the Western region. Apparently, he can walk on water, or at least on freshly brewed coffee he didn’t make.”
“Golden boy?” I scoffed, louder than I intended. “He’s a menace to public caffeine supply.”
“Tell me about it.” Brenda picked at a loose thread on her cardigan. “But you know how it is.
He schmoozes Henderson every chance he gets. Pitches ideas – mostly stolen from grunts like us, I’d wager – and Henderson eats it up.
No one wants to rock that boat. Especially not over a pot of coffee.”
Her words hung in the air, a depressing affirmation of the office hierarchy. Mark wasn’t just lazy; he was protected.
His little acts of inconsideration were tolerated, perhaps even unseen, by those at the top. This was because he knew how to play the game.
He was the kind of guy who’d step on your face to get to the next rung of the ladder. Then he’d complain your head was in his way.
The aroma of fresh coffee began to fill the small room. It was a temporary reprieve. But Brenda’s words stuck.
No one wants to rock that boat. The injustice of it settled in my stomach, a bitter brew all its own.
The “Someone Else” Doctrine
Later that morning, the universe, in its infinite capacity for irony, presented an opportunity. I was heading back from the copier, arms laden with status reports for the Synergy Initiative meeting. That’s when I saw him.
Mark Carmichael was exiting the breakroom, a smug little smirk playing on his lips, coffee cup in hand. The pot behind him? Predictably, bone dry.
This time, I didn’t sigh. I didn’t just trudge in and make more. Something in Brenda’s earlier comment, that casual dismissal of accountability, had lit a fuse.
“Mark,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady.
He turned, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised. He was all polished ambition, from his expensive haircut to his Italian loafers. The kind of man who probably ironed his socks.
“Sarah. Need something?” His tone was dismissive, as if I were a slightly annoying gnat.
“You finished the coffee,” I stated, simply. Not an accusation, just a fact.
He glanced back at the empty pot as if noticing it for the first time. A flicker of something – annoyance? No, more like indifference – crossed his face.
He shrugged, a casual, infuriating lift of his shoulders. “Yeah, so? I’m late for a pre-brief with Henderson on the Synergy numbers. Someone else will get it.”
Someone else will get it.
The sheer, unadulterated entitlement in those four words. It was the unofficial motto of every inconsiderate jerk I’d ever encountered.
It was the reason the office fridge was a biohazard. It was also the reason no one ever emptied the dishwasher.
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