Fourth Cup of Coffee

Jerry dropped his fourth cup of coffee, this time on a one of the many pink scarves coiling around his neck, and his left mitten.

“Take off the damn mittens!” anyone with any sense would tell anyone wearing mittens who just dropped his fourth cup of coffee. It didn’t matter much for Jerry. He didn’t have any hands.

He glanced at the clock (it was hard not to, since the way his neck twisted to fit inside put his head right next to it). It was past noon. Melissa should have been here by now. Had she stood him up? His heart sank. Thoughts of self-loathing and loneliness flooded his mind. Tears welled up and dropped onto what would be the hands of the clock, were it not digital.

“Hey” a woman’s voice shouted up at him. His heartbeat elevated. It was Melissa! “You’re going to pay for those cups, bozo.”

His heart sank again. It was just the barista.

“I’m sorry” he muttered.

“I don’t care if you’re sorry. Just pay for the damn things.”

Jerry tried reaching for his wallet, but his bemittened hooves couldn’t get a grip. The barista stood impatiently.

“Jesus,” she said. “I’ll get it.” She reached inside his pocket, took the wallet out, and disappeared behind the counter. A few minutes later, she came back with his wallet and a receipt. Jerry saw she left herself a generous tip. He looked at the clock again. It was twelve fifteen.

“Maybe I’ll wait fifteen more minutes,” he thought to himself.

He left at one-thirty.


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