Nothing Left in the Flask

A late arrival, a cold room, ninety minutes ahead. The bell, the hall, two birds in a tree.

You arrive late and the machine immediately begins its inventory of failures. The email unsent, the face you made, whether anyone noticed. Your mind keeps meticulous books of grievance while you try to breathe through ninety minutes of sitting. But something shifts in the space between the bell and putting on shoes. The thermos that seemed empty holds tea. The birds that were arguing before you arrived have stopped. The mechanical response you expected from yourself simply isn't there—not as spiritual achievement, but as plain fact. What happens when the grievance-keeper finally runs out of things to count?

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