Cuppa

A cuppa.

Full…. Stop! He had done it, a solid four thousand words over a couple hours, not too shabby considering how many times he had stopped to ponder or edit the work. He took another sip of his coffee – it was obviously taking him a while; he had only bought one coffee but it was still… warm.

How was it still warm? It had been two hours the coffee should have either been drained or be completely cold! He looked down at the coffee, seeing the steaming chocolaty liquid steaming and full to the brim of the cup. He took another sip, draining it down a third as some sort of insane test. It drained, and he had two thirds left.

I must be going insane. He thought, and looked back to his work, clicked save and closing the lid of his laptop.

The coffee was full again. Had a barista been topping him up? No that would just be silly, and either they had a very poor business strategy, or he had yet to see the bill – and that was not a bill he wanted to see. It would probably unfurl all the way down to the ground. Maybe the caffeine was messing with him in some weird, hallucinogenic way. He had drunk a lot, after all.

But it felt so real. He could taste it so clearly on his tongue, from the tingly sensation that comes from drinking something you know is too hot, to the chocolate flakes floating against his lips. He was thoroughly dumbfounded.

He picked up the coffee cup and inspected it, making sure to keep it well balanced so that it didn’t drip over the side. The barista was busy, and there was no one looking, so taking the cup he nipped to the toilet and poured the lot down the sink. As he had weirdly expected, the coffee cup refilled.

“Okay…”

He didn’t really know what to do with this information. So he took it to the counter.

“Um. Do you sell these cups? Could I buy one?”

“Sir, you still have coffee in it.”

“Yes, I know but would you sell it to me?”

“I mean… We’re not supposed to.”

“Please? I really like it?” He fumbled. She furrowed her brow at him.

“I mean… I guess so?” This was a little above her pay grade, and she didn’t care enough. They replaced them all the time anyway.

“How much?”

“I don’t…” She looked at the stack of mugs behind her. “A fiver?”

He fished out a fiver and returned to his table, packing up his laptop and slinging his satchel over his shoulder, almost running out of the café with his mug of refilling coffee. He could feel the eyes of the barista on the back of his head – but who cared? He had a magic mug!