In our open office, "pantry" was too grand a word for a simple table with a kettle, milk powder, and a few jars of tea and coffee. One morning, as I stood up to stretch and head over for my daily coffee, I asked, "Anyone else want coffee?"
"Me too!" came the response from him—the guy with the yawning, stretching routine that I’d first noticed on my computer screen. And then, as if on cue, two other voices chimed in, “Me too!” Our office, with ten people tucked behind screens, was suddenly full of coffee requests. Before I knew it, this became a daily ritual. Twice a day, I'd make coffee for everyone—going from a quick cup for myself to a whole operation that took 10-15 minutes.
Why? Because my coffee was apparently perfect—a blend of coffee, milk, and sugar that had earned a fan following. But, oh, I was enraged. There was no way I was going to be the designated coffee-maker, pampering all these “helpless Bens”! So, one day, I decided to shake things up: I added ten spoonfuls of sugar to each cup… except mine.
Then, I watched the scene unfold in the reflection of my computer screen as one by one, each of them took a sip. Their faces twisted, eyes squinting, mouths puckering—a silent horror spreading across the room. But no one said a word. They just sat there, quietly suffering through their overly sweet concoction.
When noon rolled around, I got up again and casually asked, “Anyone want coffee?” This time, only one brave voice replied: his. With a mischievous grin and those crinkling bright eyes, he stood up, ready to join me. And just as I started to turn, the rest chimed in, “Me too!” We all broke out laughing, the whole room filled with it, while our boss peeked out from her cubicle, wondering what in the world was going on.
From that day on, he and one other person would join me in the “coffee operation” twice a day. A week later, he and I had our first coffee date, just the two of us, and that was the start of our friendship.
