Minutes of the Meeting About Meetings

The BREAKROOM: fluorescent hum, a tired flag taped above the snack table that reads BREAKROOM REPUBLIC. A whiteboard: “ORDER OF BUSINESS.” A coffee station with a sad drip pot. The CREAMER SPOT is EMPTY.

DANA SERRANO stands at the snack table like a weary Speaker. A legal pad titled “MINUTES.” OWEN KLINE films on his phone, faux-documentary style.

Day three of the republic. The people have spoken—mostly about muffins. But today… tragedy.

PRIYA BHATNAGAR appears, holding her mug like evidence. She stares at the empty creamer slot.

No. No, no, no— I purchased that creamer. Brand-name. Lactose-free. It had a twist cap.

MARCUS PELL enters, sees the tension, freezes like he walked into a hostage negotiation.

Good morning to everyone except whatever vibe this is.

This emergency session will come to order.

Point of order: Is it an “emergency session” if we didn’t calendar it?

Owen, not today.

Who took my creamer.

Let the record show: I have never stolen dairy. I am ethically opposed to communal refrigeration tyranny.

It wasn’t dairy.

Even worse. It had policies.

Okay. We are not doing— whatever this is— without procedure. Marcus. You’re Sergeant-at-Arms.

I didn’t apply.

You’re wearing a lanyard. That’s basically a uniform.

Marcus sighs, opens the fridge, narrating like a detective.

Inventory. One suspicious yogurt with no name. One bag labeled “DO NOT EAT, SCIENCE.” Three… unclaimed salad dressings.

Those are Owen’s. He’s been “experimenting with vinaigrettes.”

They’re prototypes.

Focus. The creamer is missing. We need facts.

We need oversight. I propose a Special Committee on Creamer Integrity.

I propose you stop proposing things until you’re caffeinated enough to be tolerable.

Madam Speaker, I request the floor—

Denied.

I’m the one who denies.

Then deny her denial.

I— can’t deny a denial that doesn’t exist. This is exactly why we need minutes.

She holds up her legal pad. It’s mostly doodles of tiny gavels.

DANA (CONT’D)

“9:02 a.m. Owen attempted to table a motion by literally placing it on the table.” “9:03 a.m. Priya stared at him until he stopped.”

In our democracy, eye contact is enforcement.

Dana steps to the coffee station, opens cabinets. No creamer. She checks the trash. Nothing.

Okay. Everyone— pockets.

Excuse me?

Oh, I love this.

We’re doing pocket checks over coffee additives. This is a functioning government.

They pat pockets. Priya produces a highlighter, a binder clip, a tiny stapler. Owen produces two packets of sweetener and a pen that says “Property of Parks Dept.”

That’s… diplomacy.

Dana checks Marcus. He pulls out a granola bar, a stress ball, and— a MINI CREAMER CUP.

There.

That’s not yours. It’s a creamer cup. From the lobby coffee kiosk.

Creamer is creamer.

Incorrect. This is state-sanctioned. Yours was private-sector.

Marcus. Where’s Priya’s creamer?

Marcus hesitates. A beat. Owen leans in, smelling scandal.

Oh. We have a cover-up.

I didn’t steal it.

Then why are you sweating like the copier when it senses a staple.

Because— I moved it.

You moved it… where.

To the “Top Shelf Zone.” For safety.

There is no Top Shelf Zone. This is a standard municipal fridge.

There is when people keep putting their lunches in front of the fan and freezing the spinach.

Dana yanks open the fridge, reaches up— finds the creamer shoved behind a stack of unclaimed salad dressings. She pulls it out like a recovered artifact.

You hid it behind Owen’s vinaigrette coup.

It’s not a coup, it’s an initiative.

Marcus.

I relocated it. Temporarily. I was… protecting it from the snack table’s… volatility.

My creamer doesn’t need witness protection.

But it *did* become a political prisoner.

Enough.

Dana sets the creamer down center-table like a treaty document. The three of them hover.

DANA (CONT’D)

Here’s what’s happening. We are not letting a missing creamer trigger a civil war before nine-fifteen.

It already did.

Then we de-escalate. Priya gets her creamer back. Marcus apologizes for… clandestine refrigeration policy.

I’m sorry I cared.

That’s not an apology.

I’m sorry I cared… *secretly.*

Priya considers, then nods once— begrudgingly accepting.

And what about the committee?

No committee. However— new rule.

Owen perks up, ready to pounce.

DANA (CONT’D)

Anything moved in the fridge requires a posted note. With initials. And a timestamp.

Minutes for the milk.

A paper trail for dairy-adjacent products.

Bureaucracy wins again.

Dana grabs a sticky note, slaps it on the creamer: “DO NOT RELOCATE. -P.B. 9:11.”

She looks at them like a tired parent at a PTA meeting.

Coalition secured?

Priya twists the cap, pours a perfect stream into her mug.

Coalition secured.

Marcus raises his mini creamer cup like a salute.

Unity, but refrigerated.

Owen turns his phone to himself.

The republic survives another morning. Not because of law… but because Dana negotiated a dairy ceasefire.

Dana glares at the phone.

Stop calling it dairy.

Priya takes a sip— relaxes.

Okay. I can feel my personality returning.

That’s unfortunate for the rest of us.

Dana writes on her pad, determined.

“Motion: Create minutes of the meeting about meetings.”

Seconded.

Thirded.

Abstain, on principle.

Motion passes. Meeting adjourned.

She “gavels” with the spoon. It snaps in half.

They all stare at the broken spoon.

Symbolic.

A fragile government.

But adequately creamed.

Dana, deadpan, holds up the broken spoon like evidence.

Put that in the minutes.