There is a new coffee machine in the pantry.

The buttons are a fierce blue and they blink, like what I imagine is that back of a robot. The sides no longer have a picture of a pretty girl with long flowing hair. Now, there’s Pac-Man consuming cups of coffee instead of whatever else he otherwise consumes. One can’t tell if he’s happy or sad by the caffeine intake, because well it’s hard to tell with a face that geometric.

They took the old coffee machine out in a big blue polythene and from a distance it looked like a person. A dead body, possibly mangled, being taken away to be appropriately disposed. The place where the machine was kept was caked with old coffee remnants and half crushed beans. There was a distinct smell of sour milk.

In the afternoon, we went with our ceramic mugs to partake of some new coffee. The machine sputtered and sighed and a rich brown stream of coffee slid into my mug. I drank it with unnatural amounts of relish. There is something very comforting about coffee that doesn’t taste like metal scrap.

Rusty beverages.

There is a broken coffee machine in the pantry. On one of side of its metal body, there is a blown up picture of a laughing girl in a flowery dress on a bicycle. She isn’t riding it, she is sitting with a man, her lover I’d presume, and is concentrating on not falling off. He appears to be steering the cycle with unnatural ease all while looking extremely gleeful.

The dark brown decoction sputters out of the machine every time an ambitious person attempts to make himself a decent cup of coffee. The milk gurgles from tubes into the paper cup which sometimes quivers a little, unable to stand its own. The two foam together into a seemingly agreeable manner which hoodwinks the person into tasting this frothy liquid.
Then he gags, and drinks cold water in a hurry, his face twisted in disgust.

The coffee concentrate is the bitterest thing you’d have the misfortune of tasting. It’s vile, like drinking medicine but without the healing properties. It’s unclear whether the proportion of the liquids has gone wrong or if it’s simply just really bad coffee.

A man, with a torn gym bag full of tools, is a regular in the pantry. He tinkers with hammers and screwdrivers, attempting to fix the machine almost every other day. But somehow hasn’t, so far, managed to fix the problem permanently.

The days in between, some people make trips there, despite having been burnt by the proverbial fire before. They make themselves a cup, childishly hoping that the coffee has magically become suitable for human consumption. The rest of us, who aren’t as brave but definitely more bored, observe this and take notes.