loophole
fiction: shorter than a short cup of coffee
Just the Cup
Mornings before my job as a junior accounts clerk begins, I grab a coffee at the building café. My regular size medium, I fill the cup with fair trade, leave room for dairy, non-fat, and pause a moment to savour the aroma. Then, with the change I’ve prepared, I go to pay Marla at the register.
This morning, a woman ahead in line was holding an extra-large cup that was empty. She was dressed well, jacket and skirt of muted maroon, an elegant necklace-bracelet ensemble, expensive-looking heels. I’d seen her before, around the lobby, in the local paper, too. She was the CEO of a big financial firm in the building.
When Marla was ready for her, she strode forward and, without pausing or paying, said, “Just the cup,” and Marla waved her through. I followed, handing Marla my change, slipping the receipt for two seventy-five into my wallet.
At the condiment stand, I watched as the CEO picked up the cream and poured until her cup was almost full. I then saw her top it with a splash of non-fat. I looked once at Marla, then back at her.
She beamed. I saw in her eyes the same satisfaction and readiness I feel each morning and was feeling then. I returned her smile and got my own dairy.
We'd soon both be at our desks doing our jobs, mine to calculate the payables and receivables, make sure they are exactly right.
Rich get the cream at the top. of the BIG cup.
Rest of us the dregs of nom- fat at the dive-in spot.
But CEO gets fat and doesn't expect heart attack
A kick in the rear for sitting on the spot.
The look of entitlement.