Member-only story
Fiction
The Glass of Milk That Broke Me
A story about time travel, aliens, and sentient milk
I poured myself a glass of milk and carried it into the living room. I would drink the milk. That was my plan. It was past midnight, on a Tuesday. Why was I up so late? No idea. But here I was, on the couch, a glass of milk sitting in front of me on the coffee table. Waiting. The glass of milk was waiting for me to do something. And I was waiting for the glass of milk to take action, which seemed a far less likely thing to occur.
Milk, I thought. A glass of milk. How had this come to be, this glass of milk? Why was it in my apartment, in my home? Why was there milk in this glass? Something about this whole situation felt wrong. I lived alone. I never bought milk. I never drank milk. (Not dairy milk. I’d switched to almond milk years ago.) And yet, here, before me, was a glass of cold milk, waiting for me to act upon it. To, presumably, drink it.
When was the last time I had a glass of plain old milk? As a child, maybe? Or one time, when I had acid reflux, and I thought milk might help. But that was years ago. So how was it that this milk was here, before me? I lived alone. No one else bought groceries and put them in my fridge. So, this milk had to be bought by me, right? No one else could have done it.
