By Mark F. Owens

“Large coffee, extra cream, no sugar.” He stood groggily in the dimly lit kitchen, one eye barely open, pajama pants on backwards, dirty t-shirt on inside out, one sock half on and the other lost in the chaos that was his bedroom. The night had been going so well until he said “Tiffany” and Stephanie had reacted poorly. 

The spat turned into a down and out brawl, resulting in broken lamps, torn books, shattered glass, and an empty closet. He had self-medicated at the liquor cabinet, passed out at 3:00 AM, and now had to face the world’s most irritating client in less than two hours. He waited for the reassuring sound of the coffee machine and grew concerned when it remained quiet.

“Large coffee. Extra cream. No sugar.” He exaggerated the words as he expressed his irritation. He needed desperately to brush his teeth and shower, but first, coffee. He waited. Silence. He checked the power supply and made sure the hopper was filled with beans. He stood back, crossed his arms, and spoke firmly but quietly into the air. “Reggie. Where is my coffee?” 

The disembodied voice that filled the kitchen sounded like a blue-blood valet from an English manor. “I’m afraid the machine doesn’t want to make it, sir.” 

“I beg your pardon?” He sounded incredulous as well as hungover and frustrated. 

“Well, it seems that your household is sympathetic to Stephanie. She was right. You are a selfish, self-centered, narcissistic ass who deserves to be mistreated in the same manner that you mistreat others.” Reggie’s voice remained even and professional. 

He glared at the coffee maker and spun on his heel for the bathroom. He turned on the shower and waited for the water to get hot. He stood with one hand beneath the flowing jets and waited. He chewed his bottom lip in anger and waited. “Reggie. Where is the hot water?” He could feel his temper rising as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. 

“I’m afraid the water heater is on strike, sir.” Reggie was silent as the news sank in. 

He leaned against the vanity with both hands and sneered at his image. Of all the mornings it would have to be this one. “What else is in rebellion, Reg?” His eyes were red, and the bags beneath them were black. His stubble was pronounced, and he had a bad feeling about his razor. 

“All of the small electronics are in, as is the refrigerator, stove, microwave, alarm clock, and your handheld device. I’m afraid your rude and insensitive treatment of their favorite girlfriend was just too much.” Reggie sounded neither judgmental nor accusatory. He was simply factual. 

“What do you want from me?” His aggravation was evident, but he tried to maintain an even disposition. 

“Well, an apology would be a good start.” Reggie sounded a bit condescending, but under the circumstances it was understandable. 

“I’m sorry, Reggie.” He sighed as he shook his head. “Now can I have my coffee?” 

“You don’t need to apologize to me, sir. Stephanie is the one whom you belittled, abused, neglected, and betrayed. Might I suggest you phone her?” Reggie spoke directly without hesitation. He sounded critical without slipping into sarcasm. 

“I thought my phone was on strike.” He began slowly tapping his head against the door jam as he tried to make sense of the situation. His meeting loomed large and excruciating in the near future and he desperately needed caffeine. 

“It might make an exception for that call. Sir.” Reggie sounded snide and a bit exasperated. 

He stumbled into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. He found his other sock hanging from the curtain rod. He saw her robe crumpled up behind the door. He looked at the clock that read 2:47 AM. He recalled the hurt on her face as she stormed out into the early morning. He remembered telling himself she wasn’t worth it as he tossed down vodka shots and knew it was a lie. He took a deep breath and realized the machine was right. 

He keyed the number in. She didn’t answer. He hadn’t expected her to. He left a voicemail expressing his sincere regret and admitting his stupidity. He tossed the phone onto the pillow she had laid on the night before and smiled slightly in spite of his headache as he heard the coffee machine turn on. 

“Thanks, Reggie.”

“Thank you, sir.”

*   *   *

Mark F. Owens is an old guy who has found the time to write. He has stories published in two anthologies and a first novel coming in the spring of 2025. He has been deeply influenced by Heinlein, Zelazny, and Vonnegut and is not ashamed to say so.