I knew the day was going to be interesting when the elevator doors opened without the usual inclusion of an elevator.

I stepped forward, raising my mug of coffee to my face as I did so, and only managed through sheer blind instinct to stop my motion before I passed the point of no return and plummeted to an untimely and gruesome demise. My hands shot out frantically, in search of some purchase. The right one, the one that had been holding the coffee cup—which now tumbled gracefully away from me, trailing banners of brown liquid behind it—managed to grab the edge of the doorway and tip me backwards just enough to stabilize.

To my left and slightly behind me, a woman sighed.

I gazed down the empty shaft, took a step backwards, and turned towards her.

“That was my best mug,” I said.

My use of the past tense had been premature. It wasn’t until a second after I’d spoken that we heard the crashing and splintering of porcelain against concrete.

For some reason unknown to me, the woman began to laugh.