[ WP ] The entire world is infected with a virus that causes death on sleeping . Tell me about the coffee trade .

“ Number 20,500, ” a loudspeaker blares. 
 
 *About damn time*, I think, *I was beginning to doze off*. I manuever my way through a crowd of people to the counter. 
 
 “ What ’ ll it be today, ma ’ am? ” a woman in a green apron asks. 
 
 “ Pike roast. Black. 8 ounces. ” 
 
 The woman reaches behind her and pulls a lever, releasing a stream of thin brown serum from a nozzle into a crystal clear cup. She takes it and hands it to me. The second the aroma accosts my nostrils, my face contorts in disgust; I don ’ t like coffee, never have, never will. But ever since I was diagnosed with Severe Melatonin Dysmorphia, or Nocturne as most of us call it, I ’ ve relied on it to keep me awake. The second your brain succumbs to sleep, Nocturne kills you. I haven ’ t slept in 3 days, but many have gone longer. 
 
 The counter lady clears her throat and looks at me accusingly. *Shit, have I really been standing here for that long? * I grab my cup and take a quick look at her eyes. Hers have thick red that snake across the pale yellow backdrop like rivers. Clothing, jewelry, and fancy cars are wealth identifiers of the past. Ever since Nocturne, peoples ’ eyes have betrayed their social strata better than Rolexes ever could. Those who have gobs of money can afford coffee. Those with empty wallets are left with empty cups, like this poor girl. She can ’ t even afford enough of the stuff she is selling. 
 
 I leave the shop and sip my coffee as I walk through the city. The orchestra of car horns and footsteps has been replaced by a symphony of yawns punctuated by the occasional percussive thud of another person taking the “ big nap ”. Mug toting beggars and vendors with pitchers line the streets. I rarely give or sell because I can ’ t afford to; coffee prices are rising at breakneck speeds, and the free market doesn ’ t seem to care that java is the only thing keeping people awake and alive. The companies defend themselves by proclaiming that demand is demand, and that they ’ re willing to sell if people are willing to buy. Our government tried to take the stuff and distribute it fairly, but the companies cried socialism and wouldn ’ t allow it. So the companies sell. The people buy. They pawn their most prized possessions to pay for a cup of murky liquid, just to prop their eyelids open until they can afford their next dose. Or until they can ’ t. Then they succumb to sleep, becoming nothing more than another thud in the symphony. 
 
 Soon coffee won ’ t matter anyways; caffeine can only keep us going for so long. But until then we cling to the stuff, desperate to elude the sandman for a few more hours. 
 
 I take my last sip. Never has coffee tasted so bitter. 

