A Vein of Dark Roast

I waddled off that useless soft fabric and marched straight onto the kitchen counter. Hard laminate underfoot—now that is ground a working miner can respect. Right ahead sat a tin canister. It smelled like pure fuel. Someone left a scattering of dark, whole coffee beans right across the surface like unmined ore. I charged in, wedging my shoulder against a bulky bean twice my width and rolling it into a neat line. It barely budged at first, but honest grit moves mountains. If management saw this hustle, Employee of the Month would already be pinned to my hat.