The sound of dead coffee (part 1) THE HUMAN There was a loud noise coming from outside the house. I woke up immediately. I went downstairs to see what was happening. I couldn’t see my cat sleeping in his nook. Once in the kitchen, I found a broken white cup of coffee all over the floor, the smell was unmistakable and it still addictively penetrated my dozing nostrils. My bare feet felt a thousand tiny cold pieces of porcelain that used to be my father’s gift from my last year’s birthday. Amazingly original as always. I headed towards the main door in the middle of that November night and I opened it anxiously tired, and no… in case you’re wondering, I hadn’t any big ugly baseball bat to hit whoever was outside willing to kill me. I just had a dirty knife that I had used earlier that night to have dinner. I wish I have had a fancy little gun, one of those you’re suppose to use if you are a secret agent working for a lot of loot, but that wasn’t my case. For my big surprise, I couldn’t see anything suspicious. The same old tree messing around with the cold wind was in the same stupid place to grow as a tree. Sometimes you must be conscious about the best places to take root for the rest of your shortened tree life. The garbage can was in the same dark and humid place. My neighbor’s brand-new car was just where the asshole left it after he came back from his remarkable job he usually boast of to me. I heaved a sigh of relief and anger. I was sleeping so tight for god’s sake. I turned around and closed the main door very slowly, like if it was alive or something. Instantaneously, I started to analyze the crime scene I saw in the kitchen. The stupid cat must have thrown my cup of coffee. For me it was now a fugitive. Where was that little demon? I refused to look what time was it. I was too busy thinking about my bed. I automatically went to my room, every step upstairs took longer than it did when there was still a big sun that caress the city. I think I only slept about six hours that night.