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.
It was, in miniature, everything wrong with a system that rewarded self-importance over basic human decency.
He started to turn away. “Look, I really can’t be late for this…”
“It takes two minutes to make a new pot, Mark,” I pressed, the words out before I could stop them. My heart was starting to thump a little harder.
This was it. The boat was officially being rocked.
He actually chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “And those are two minutes I don’t have. Henderson’s waiting. You understand.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He just strode down the hall, his loafers clicking importantly on the linoleum.
He left me standing there with my stack of reports and a simmering rage.
He didn’t understand. Not at all. But I had a sudden, very clear feeling that he was about to.
A Calculated Risk
Back at my desk, the encounter replayed in my mind. His shrug. His condescending tone.
Someone else will get it. The phrase echoed, a taunt.
The frustration wasn’t just about coffee anymore; it was about the principle. It was about the way people like Mark Carmichael skated through life. They expected others to clean up their messes, literal and metaphorical.
My gaze drifted to the shared office calendar on my screen. I scanned the upcoming meetings. And there it was, highlighted in bold: “Mark Carmichael: Synergy Initiative – West Coast Projection Pitch to VP Henderson. Conference Room B. Tuesday, 9:00 AM.”
Tomorrow.
An idea, audacious and a little bit wicked, began to form. It started as a tiny spark of rebellion. It quickly flared into a full-blown plan.
It was petty, yes. But his daily coffee crime was petty. His dismissal of me was petty.
Sometimes, you had to fight fire with… well, with decaf.
A slow smile spread across my face. It probably looked a little unhinged.
I felt a thrill, a jolt of adrenaline that had nothing to do with caffeine. This wasn’t just about teaching Mark a lesson in breakroom etiquette.
This was about striking a tiny blow for every “someone else” who’d ever been dismissed or taken for granted.
I minimized the calendar and opened a new tab, searching for the opening hours of the all-night grocery store near my house. My shopping list was short: one can of high-quality, indistinguishable-from-the-real-thing decaffeinated coffee.
Tom would definitely not approve. Lily would probably write a ballad about it.
But as I clicked “confirm” on my mental preparations, a sense of grim satisfaction settled over me. Mark Carmichael was about to have a very different kind of morning.
And for once, “someone else” was going to make damn sure of it.
The Decaf Gambit: Before the Rooster Crows
My alarm blared at 5:30 AM, a brutal summons from the depths of a restless sleep. For a moment, tangled in my duvet, I questioned my sanity. Was I really about to commit a clandestine act of caffeinated subterfuge over office politics?
Then I remembered Mark’s smug face, his dismissive shrug. Someone else will get it.
Yes. Yes, I was.
Tom mumbled something incoherent beside me and burrowed deeper under the covers. He knew I was up early for “a big project at work,” a vague excuse I’d offered last night. Lily was still dead to the world, her teenage biorhythms immune to anything before noon.
The drive to Sterling Solutions was eerie. The streets were deserted, bathed in the pre-dawn gloom. The city felt like a ghost town.
I pulled into the usually packed employee lot. I found only a handful of cars belonging to the dedicated (or insane) early birds.
Letting myself into the darkened office felt like breaking and entering. The emergency lights cast long, dancing shadows down the hallways.
My footsteps echoed unnervingly on the polished floors. The silence was absolute, save for the hum of the server room.
I made a beeline for the breakroom. The coast was clear. My heart hammered against my ribs, a mixture of nerves and a strange, illicit excitement.
From my oversized tote bag – my “covert ops” kit – I pulled out the can of premium decaf. The packaging was almost identical to our usual office brand. Perfect.
With the precision of a bomb disposal expert, I emptied the previous night’s grounds. Someone, bless their soul, had actually made a late pot. I rinsed the carafe and measured out the decaf.
The aroma, as it began to brew, was convincingly rich. I double-checked for any stray decaf grounds and wiped down the counter meticulously.
Then, the crucial step: I disposed of the decaf can in the main kitchen trash. I buried it deep beneath yesterday’s discarded takeout containers and banana peels from another floor. No trace.
I retreated to my cubicle, feigning an early start on the Synergy reports, my ears straining for the sound of the elevator. It was 6:45 AM. The game was afoot.
The Unwitting Participant
The first few colleagues trickled in around 7:30 AM, yawning and bleary-eyed. They made their coffee, none the wiser.
I watched them from the corner of my eye, a knot of anticipation tightening in my stomach. Each cup poured from my decaf pot was a small victory.
Then, at precisely 8:48 AM, two minutes before his usual arrival time, the elevator dinged. Mark Carmichael strode into the office, exuding his typical air of self-importance.
He nodded curtly to a few people, his gaze already fixed on the breakroom. He was a creature of habit, this man. Predictable.
And today, his predictability was his undoing.
He disappeared into the breakroom. I held my breath. I could hear the faint clink of his mug, the glug of the coffee pouring.
He emerged a moment later, large ceramic mug in hand, already taking a confident sip. He didn’t even glance at the pot.
Why would he? It was full. Someone else had clearly gotten it.
He walked past my cubicle, offering a perfunctory, “Morning, Sarah,” without making eye contact, his mind already on his big pitch.
“Morning, Mark,” I replied, my voice remarkably even. “Good luck with Henderson.”
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, already halfway to Conference Room B. Hook, line, and sinker.
I watched him go, a triumphant smirk playing on my lips. He was walking into that high-stakes meeting, the one he believed Henderson saw as a showcase of his brilliance, armed with nothing but hot, brown, utterly powerless placebo.
The minutes ticked by. Eight fifty-five. Eight fifty-nine.
The door to Conference Room B clicked shut. Showtime.
I waited, savoring the moment. Ten minutes. That felt about right.
It was long enough for the absence of caffeine to start making its subtle, insidious presence felt. It was also long enough for his usual sharp focus to blur at the edges.
With a deep breath, I stood up, grabbing the second pot of coffee I’d discreetly brewed at my desk with my personal mini-brewer – this one full-octane, extra-strong, the kind I knew Henderson particularly favored.
The Grand Reveal
I walked towards Conference Room B, the aroma of genuine, high-test coffee preceding me like a herald. I could hear the low murmur of voices from within. Mark would be mid-flow, or perhaps just starting to realize something was… off.
I pushed the door open gently, pasting on my most helpful, slightly apologetic expression. “So sorry to interrupt, Mr. Henderson, Mark,” I began, my voice bright and cheerful. “I was just brewing a fresh pot, and knowing how critical this Synergy pitch is, I thought you both could use some real coffee to keep the energy levels up!”
I emphasized “real” just a fraction, a tiny verbal nudge.
Mr. Henderson, a man whose moods could shift like tectonic plates, looked up from Mark’s presentation slides. A flicker of surprise, then a small, appreciative smile. “Sarah! Excellent timing. Thoughtful of you.”
Mark, however, froze. Mid-sentence.
His eyes, which had been darting nervously between Henderson and his notes, snapped to me. Then they went to the steaming pot in my hands.
Finally, with dawning horror, his gaze fell upon the almost-empty mug of decaf on the polished mahogany table in front of him.
His face was a study in slow-motion realization. The confident veneer cracked.
The color drained from his cheeks, leaving him looking pasty under the fluorescent lights. It was as if I’d announced the coffee he’d been guzzling was distilled water, or worse, yesterday’s dishwater.
He knew. Oh, he knew.
I met his gaze, my expression utterly benign, and poured a generous cup for Mr. Henderson, then offered one to Mark. “Mark? More coffee?”
He stared at the cup I offered as if it were a coiled snake. He shook his head mutely, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor.
He looked smaller, somehow. Deflated.
The air of smug superiority had vanished, replaced by a bewildered, slightly panicked confusion.
“Alright then,” I said, still smiling pleasantly. “I’ll just leave this here for you both. Good luck with the rest of the presentation.”
I placed the pot on the credenza and backed out of the room, closing the door softly behind me. As I walked back to my cubicle, I couldn’t suppress the grin.
It was priceless. Absolutely priceless.
The Last-Cup-of-Coffee Coward had just been served.
Cracks in the Facade
I tried to focus on my Synergy reports, but my ears were practically swiveling towards Conference Room B. The silence from that direction was, initially, deafening.
Then, I heard the resumed murmur of Mark’s voice. But it was different. Weaker. Less assured.
Brenda sidled up to my cubicle later, ostensibly to ask about a spreadsheet, but her eyes were gleaming with curiosity. “So,” she whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, “I saw you go into the lion’s den with a fresh pot. Anything interesting happen?”
“Just thought they could use a pick-me-up,” I said, maintaining my poker face.
Brenda wasn’t buying it, but she just winked. “Uh-huh. Well, whatever you did, I heard young Carmichael sounded like he was presenting his own eulogy in there. Henderson apparently looked like he was chewing on wasps.”
A thrill, sharp and satisfying, shot through me. It was working. Better than I could have hoped.
When the door to Conference Room B finally opened nearly an hour later, Mr. Henderson emerged first, his expression thunderous. He didn’t say a word, just stalked back to his corner office.
Mark trailed out a few moments later, looking utterly crushed. His expensive suit seemed to hang off him.
His hair, usually so perfectly coiffed, looked slightly disheveled. It was as if he’d been running his hands through it in frustration.
He clutched his notes, now slightly crumpled, and avoided eye contact with everyone. He made a beeline for his own cubicle, disappearing behind its grey partitions.
The office, already buzzing with the usual undercurrent of pre-deadline stress, now had a new topic of hushed conversation. “Did you see Mark’s face?” “Heard the pitch was a disaster.” “Henderson looked like he was about to blow a gasket.”
I felt a surge of triumph, quickly followed by an unexpected pang. It wasn’t guilt, not exactly.
It was more like a queasy awareness of the power I’d wielded. I’d wanted to teach him a lesson, to make him uncomfortable.
I hadn’t anticipated a complete public meltdown.
Or maybe I had, just a little.
The rest of the day, Mark was a ghost. He didn’t emerge for his usual mid-afternoon coffee run. Not that there was any left by then, thanks to a sudden, office-wide caffeine craving.
He didn’t schmooze. He just sat, presumably stewing in his decaffeinated failure.
My small act of rebellion had detonated with far greater force than I’d imagined. The question now was: what would the fallout be?
Ripples and Retribution: The Office Telegraph
The Sterling Solutions grapevine, already efficient, went into overdrive. By lunchtime, the story of Mark Carmichael’s disastrous presentation was legendary.
Details, mostly fabricated, were added with each telling: he’d burst into tears, he’d called Mr. Henderson by his first name. He’d even accidentally proposed merging with a rival paperclip company.
The reality – that he was simply unprepared, sluggish, and uninspired thanks to a lack of his usual chemical assistance – was almost too mundane for the rapidly embellishing narrative.
About the Author
