You know that cursed question that people always ask when they feel like they have hit rock bottom? That question that no one is supposed to ask when things go wrong, yet for whatever reason, they just can't help themselves but to ask it anyway? Can it get any worse?
And much like "Abra Kadabra" or "Hocus Pocus," the magic dice are then cast. And much as we all know the answer to the question that should never be asked, yes. Indeed, it can and will get much, much worse.
I should have known as much when I opened my eyes that morning. Of course, my alarm didn't go off. Of course, I didn't have time to make coffee before I left. Of course, the dark clouds above had already dousing everything by the time I pulled into the parking lot of the office. Of course, I was late to work. Of course, I was already on thin ice with my manager. Lucky me, he was the first person I ran into as I flew through the doors to escape the torrential downpour this morning. I accidentally knocked his coffee out of his hand, and we were both wearing it now. Great. Now, neither of us has coffee. As Mr. Lander glared a hole straight through my very soul with a hatred that words couldn't have done justice for, I let the dangerous (and downright idiotic) whispered words slip into the atmosphere for the universe to absorb. "Can it get any worse?" To which the universe will always answer, "Hold my beer."
I was in the restroom with a damp paper towel, trying my hardest to scrub the brown stain off the front of my white shirt. The bathroom door opened, and Daniel came strolling in. Even later than all the late people. He just showed up whenever he felt like it. In typical fashion, his shirt wasn't tucked in. His tie was askew, he hadn't shaved, so his face was scruffy. With a slacker like this roaming the office, why was I the target of Mr. Lander's contempt? I showed up every day. Usually on time. I did my work. I kept to myself. I was a good guy. I couldn't help but clench my jaw in frustration as I noticed Daniel approaching me in the mirror.
"You're gonna wanna dab, not scrub." He offered helpfully, nodding like he had it all figured out. So, the guy who can't seem to find his way to work every day conveniently knows how to remove coffee stains. Imagine that. With a low rumble of thunder that vibrated the window, the electricity flickered for a moment. We waited in silence to see if that was all. When the lights stabilized, I dampened a new paper towel, as my last one had fallen apart.
"Thanks." I really tried to make the word sound nice, but it definitely came out thickly laced with sarcasm.
"Or is that blood?" He pondered aloud, backpedaling now, "Maybe it's actually lipstick." He shook his head and chuckled to himself, "I can't even remember. Don't listen to me."
"I wasn't planning on it." I whispered bitterly under my breath. Then I returned to scrubbing at the stain on my shirt that I had actually managed to turn from a yucky brown shade into a yucky yellow shade. Progress. That would have to be as close to good that this was going to get. I turned to Daniel, who, this whole time, had been standing around watching me rather than entering a stall or even bothering to go to the urinal. "Did you come in here to use the bathroom?"
"Oh, nah." He scoffed like that was the dumbest question he had heard all day, "I'm just chillin' like a villain."
Why did that not surprise me in the least. "Cool." I brushed right past him and right out the door. When I made it to my desk, I was surprised to see a cup of coffee - still steaming - sitting right next to my keyboard. Before I even had a chance to sit down, I heard her voice behind me.
"Good morning, Tucker!"
I turned around to see her bright smile, emerald eyes, and curled red locks waiting for me. I smiled back, "Bea. Good morning. Did you?" I gestured back to the coffee.
