The Coffee-Pot Caper

The Coffee-Pot Caper
Carol St. Ann

Approx 600 words

I am a creature of habit.

One of the habits to which I am a slave is my nighttime ritual. I turn down the bed, take a quick shower, towel dry my hair, and let it air dry while I do other chores.

One of my other habits is to prepare the coffee for the morning. It takes no time at all to set up a percolator. Spoon in the designated number of scoops, fill to the designated level with water, and leave it until morning when I will come to the kitchen and plug it in as part of my wake-up-and-face-the-world ritual.

As I have already alluded, my day starts with a series of well-organized, mindless tasks, which suits me fine, because I am a dreamer. I typically breeze through it without ever actually paying any attention to where I am or what I am doing.

One morning, however, I became painfully aware of my real life surroundings when I went downstairs to start the coffee pot perking. As I entered the kitchen, I was shaken to my core by the realization that we had been robbed.

Not wanting to be the only one whose personal universe was disrupted, I ran upstairs and woke Steve. "Get up! Hurry! We've been robbed!" My heart raced, my hands shook, and speech did not come easy.

He sat bolt upright and reached for the phone. "Tell me what's missing!" He clutched it with his shoulder while he rummaged through his side table for a pen and paper.

"The coffee pot," I choked out.

He put the phone back. "What else was taken?"

"Nothing." I waggled my finger at the phone. "Why does it matter?"

He folded his arms across his chest. "Are you telling me that someone broke into our house and took nothing but the coffee pot?"

"Yes! The coffee pot. What are you going to do about it?"

He looked at me as though I'd decided to run for president. "Okay, Hon, you make a damn good pot of coffee, but it's not that good. I really don't think someone broke in just to take our coffee pot."

"Well, it's not here, Mister; how do you explain that?" My dander was up. I wanted him to make the call.

"I can't explain it. But I am sure no one broke in to take it." He dismissed the episode and stepped into the shower.

I shouted after him. "Are you going to phone the police or not?”

“Not.”

“Steve.”

“I am not going to call the police to tell them that someone broke into our house and stole a coffee pot. No.” He isn’t usually so unreasonable, but he wasn’t budging.

“Fine!” I shouted.

“Fine!” He shouted back.

We both prepared and left for work in record time, not speaking.

Around midday, he phoned to apologize, adding that he would be home about a half hour early.

I felt badly about the morning and decided it didn’t matter. I would buy another coffee pot on the weekend and let the issue drop for now. A scrumptious dinner would let him know that these little things will not affect the grand scheme.

I arrived home and kicked off my shoes, as was my arriving-home habit, tied back my hair, and set about the meal preparations. I opened the refrigerator to get the milk, but first I had to move the coffee pot out of my way.




Steve never asked, and I never told.