the western front

I’m standing in the kitchen alone, cleaning the day-old scum from the bottom of my mug. This is what a bad job is like. No company, no talk, no life. It’s like death row here, shells of men dragged from their slumber each day just to see the clock hands wind. Each man too deep in his own self-pity to care about another. Three soul-less days between rejoicing and rejoicing, yet such a lifeless drone between. The smothered cry of a lonely radio echoes somewhere down the halls. I crack the silver seal of the instant coffee and dive there into with a weathered spoon proclaiming from the stem that it belongs to FRED, or perhaps that it was victim to a phantom calligrapher with a similar moniker who simply couldn’t help himself. I have no feelings for this coffee mug. I can not fault it as an appliance for drinking, but it holds no fondness for me. Maybe I shall leave it here when I depart this place. I turn to the emotionless refrigerator for my dairy assistance, shelves of lunchboxes crush my dreams of cakes and cinnamon buns, a reminder that even cafe staff have vacated this husk of a place. The white cooling giant brings no solace for my under-stimulated soul, she offers only a festive chart on how to mathematicise my drinking, and an overcomplicated chart dictating whose turn it is to buy the milk.

I never buy the milk.

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