She sighed, shooting a glare at the
coffee machine. It was teasing her with its meticulous silver sheen; however no
coffee was to be made that morning. Sighing again in frustration, the receptionist
rubbed her temples, a sure sign of an oncoming migraine.
Her day passed by like a movie montage, people coming and
going, papers signed, phones ringing. It sped up and slowed down constantly and
became a giant technicolour blur.
Checking the clock for the millionth time that day, a
realisation came to her. Making her way to the coffee machine, she pinched the
bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, exasperated. No one had switched it on.
