Cups

Two hundred and seven waxed paper cups standing mouth down in two rows of five piles like the columns of Penshaw monument, brown and white, in unequal piles, some with eighteen cups and some with twenty three and all at different heights waiting to be filled with hot beverages, brown and white, cappuccino, Americano or café au lait.  Waxed paper cups clean and disposable waiting to be picked up by a delegate’s hand and placed mouth up under the feed pipes of the automated coffee dispensers ready to exude their elixir, brown and white.

Streams of hot coffee for a stream of conference attendees who form a queue in front of the machines to get their fix but first their hands must hover over the waxed paper cups, clean and neat and in two rows of five piles.  A decision is to be made.  Which pile are they going to take the cup from?  Why stop, why hesitate, what difference does it make?  They are all the same, brown and white, clean and waxed in neat piles.  The first is as good as the last and the coffee will taste the same and the paper will feel the same on the lips and the brown and white liquid will pour down the throat in the same way.  So why the hesitation?

The first decision is made.  They don’t want to conform, they want to rebel, they want to be seen to be a bit different from the regular crowd and so they reach towards the back, towards the second pile from the back on the right hand side, a low pile with fewer cups in it, a choice that had to be made, had to be thought out and required concentration.  The next is more timid, more accepting, more conscious of how they will be perceived.  They don’t want to make a fuss and get in another’s way.  They feel the stress of the queue behind them and they blush at their indecision and they can feel the blood mottling their neck and chest and they pick cup from near the front before apologising to the person behind them.

But they’re not having any of it because they are in a hurry with lots to do and just need to grab a quick drink before getting back to the important matters they have on their plate.  This one is standing too close to the person in front, increasing their stress, almost standing on them and they grab the nearest cup.  Time is of the essence and they tap the cup in frustration and look over the shoulders of those in the queue to see what is causing the hold up.  Behind them comes a clumsy one with a laptop bag strewn over their left shoulder that catches the front row of cups as they look round for a colleague and tips them over on their sides.  They spin round to pick them up and catch the edge of the table which groans rubber on tile and only heightens their embarrassment and draws attention to their flustering. But they need not worry because soon along comes the perfectionist, verging on the disordered who takes the time to arrange the rows neatly, in line, in sync and with the greatest care and attention counts the cups and shifts them from one pile to another so that they are all the same height.  The number of cups is not a product of ten, not a decimal and so one pile has to be smaller than the others but that is fine because it is at the front left where it should be and it appeals to their sense of order.   But they have been watching what has been going on and are tall enough and mean enough to lean over and pick a cup apparently at random that disrupts the balance and upsets the equilibrium and destroys the pattern.  A smile forms on their lips which they hide by looking down to the floor tiles, brown and white and so the queue moves on.