A Different Type of Coffee

I watch the steaming brown coffee dispense into a thin paper cup as I daydream of a life unconstrained by these stifling office walls. It’s the same damn thing every morning – bring the coffee to the boss, listen to her antics, and proceed on with my monotonous, high school intern tasks. I thought that when I took this job, I would be gaining real lawyer experience to aid in my future career, but instead, I’m stuck filing papers and being a glorified barista.

She takes her coffee the same way every morning: a splash of whole milk and one sugar packet, ever so slightly mixed. If I mix it one time too many, the boss claims she could taste the difference; if I were to forget even a particle of sugar, she claims the entire cup is ruined. I curse her name under my breath as I stare into the milky brown liquid and wish for the time to fly by.

People ask why I don’t leave, try to find other opportunities. Problem is, the boss – otherwise known as my aunt at family dinners - is the one holding the chains. If I agree to stay at her firm and eventually become a partner, she’ll leave my sister’s firm alone. If I leave, chances are my sister’s reputation as a lawyer will never be the same, and I’ll never be able to forgive myself. My sister has worked incredibly hard to establish herself as a renowned lawyer, and my boss is in possession of a few pieces of knowledge that could bring everything she has burning to the ground.

I walk into the boss’s office, taking in the perpetual sight of her furiously pounding at the keyboard with a phone wedged between her ear and shoulder, her mouth moving nearly as fast as her hands as she yells into the phone. I don’t bother to say anything; she won’t notice me anyway, so I set the paper cup down on a coaster on the far side of her desk. She nods (to me, I think? Or to her telephone conversationalist?) and then beckons me closer to her.

I try to conceal my sigh as I await the end to her phone call.

“Yes, I’ll have those files to you by the end of the day. Thank you, bye,” she finishes, hanging up. Turning to me, I can already tell she’s going to ask for a laundry list of items to be completed before I leave for the day. “Would you be able to handle welcoming the clients in today? The receptionist is out, oh, and likely we’ll need to refill the coffee supply for them –“ she breaks off mid-thought, chewing on the end of her pen, “- and I also suppose I’ll need you to organize the files and scan in the documents of our newest estate cases.”

She quickly returns her attention to her computer, as if I was never there, and I take that as my cue to leave. With this much to do, the day should fly by.

I continue about my tasks, printing off papers for welcome folders and organizing the conference rooms for the incoming clients today. As I’m sorting through the files for an estate settlement, I hear a formidable crash come from the boss’s office. Annoying, really, in the calm ambience of the office, that my boss would be so disruptive. She probably knocked a book or two off the shelf in her flurry of looking for a certain document for a specific client. Calmly, I set down my files while a paralegal scampers around me to see the source of the disturbance. When she does, she screams.

“Call 911!”

I’m alerted now, at least enough to move, and I make my way to the office where I see the boss, stretched out at an awkward angle across the floor, her phone strewn beside her. Her head is bleeding profusely where it must have made contact with the edge of her extraordinarily expensive desk, and she appears to be breathing laboriously. The paralegal is hurriedly attempting to stop the bleeding while I look on, until I’m shocked from my stupor by her raspy voice yelling at me to dial 911, quick, quick, quick.

My fingers feel almost numb as I type in the three numbers and hold the phone up to my ear. The phone only rings for a few seconds before the operator picks up and asks me the standard questions about my emergency. I describe the scene, the address, my voice level, and the operator repeats it all back to me while reassuring me help is on the way.

When they arrive, everything becomes a blur. Someone takes my name while other paramedics escort my aunt outside to the waiting ambulance. They ask me how I’m feeling (I’m fine) and if I can remember if anything was different with the boss this morning (no, she was her usual self). I’m answering the questions, but I’m not fully there. They tell me they’ll talk to me at a later date because I’m probably in shock at what just happened, and I nod, just so they’ll leave my presence and stop bothering me.

I should be more concerned that my aunt is being whisked away in an ambulance, but I simply can’t bring myself to care. Her life could end any moment now, but I’m currently focusing on how the blood stain will ever be removed from the carpet in her office. My mom will never recover from losing her sister, but she doesn’t know everything we’ve gone through, and I’m thinking about the paperwork for handing over the firm. For everything my aunt has threatened my sister and I with, she deserves this ending.

A few hours later, our office receives a call from the hospital.

The boss, my aunt, did not survive her mysterious attack. They’re uncertain as to what exactly caused her sudden death, but the law firm is now without a head lawyer. I look down at my empty hands, remembering where it all started this morning.

I suppose her coffee wasn’t made exactly the way she liked it this morning.