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.
No comments:
Post a Comment