A Theory of Dissolving Spoons
A retired physicist believes he's losing his mind when sugar cubes begin arranging themselves into quantum equations, a delusion his old colleague mercilessly mocks—until the barista starts explaining particle physics.
INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY
Sunlight streams through the large plate-glass window of a quiet, neighborhood coffee shop. The gentle HUM of an espresso machine and the murmur of distant conversation.
JOHN (68), a man with the thoughtful, weary eyes of a lifelong academic, sits alone at a small table. He stares intently at his untouched cup of coffee.
Beside it, a small porcelain bowl of sugar cubes. And on the dark wood of the table, five sugar cubes sit in a PERFECTLY STRAIGHT LINE.
John blinks. Leans closer, his breath held.
A sixth cube, sitting apart from the others, TWITCHES. It lifts onto one edge, wobbles for a moment, then slides with impossible smoothness into place at the end of the line. Six perfect cubes.
John’s eyes dart around. He glances up at a ceiling vent, then places a hand flat on the table, feeling for vibrations. Nothing. The movement was too deliberate.
His hand trembles as he fumbles for his phone. He has to get proof. He isn't going mad.
He angles the phone, thumbs open the camera app.
CLICK. He takes a photo. Then another.
He looks down at the screen.
INSERT - PHONE SCREEN
The photo shows the coffee cup and six sugar cubes scattered randomly across the table, as if knocked by a careless sleeve. Nothing like the impossible, ordered line he is seeing with his own eyes.
John lowers the phone, his face a mask of disbelief and frustration. He looks from the phone back to the table. The perfect line of six cubes remains.
A new voice cuts through his focus.
TERRY (O.S.)
> Forgetting what sugar is for, John? It goes *in* the coffee, you know.
TERRY (late 60s), a man radiating smug, pragmatic confidence, slides into the chair opposite John. He places his own coffee down with a clatter.
TERRY
> Dissolves. Entropy. Your favourite subject.
John doesn’t look at him. He points a shaky finger at the table.
JOHN
> (whispering)
> Look.
On the table, a second row of cubes has begun to form beneath the first. Two cubes slide into place as they watch.
Terry squints, follows John's gaze. He sighs, a theatrical display of patience.
TERRY
> I see sugar cubes. On a table. I also see a man who has clearly forgotten to take his medication this morning. Are you building a little Stonehenge? Worshipping the caffeine gods?
JOHN
> They’re moving, Terry. On their own. They’re forming… an equation.
Terry leans forward, his face a caricature of clinical assessment. He squints dramatically at the cubes.
TERRY
> Ah, yes. I see it now. ‘Two plus two equals fish.’ John, you’ve finally cracked it. Your Nobel Prize is in the post.
> (sitting back)
> Honestly, if you’re this bored in your retirement, I can lend you a lawnmower.
John ignores him. His gaze is locked on the table.
CLOSE ON - SUGAR CUBES
The cubes are now forming complex symbols. One group arranges itself into a clear ħ. Another forms a Ψ. The language of quantum mechanics, rendered in crystalline sugar.
LINDA (20s), the barista, with tattoos of constellations spiraling up one arm, approaches to wipe a neighboring table.
LINDA
> Everything alright over here, gentlemen?
Terry gestures dismissively towards John without looking up from his phone.
TERRY
> John’s having a conversation with the condiments. He thinks they’re doing his quantum homework.
Linda’s gaze falls on the table. John braces for her confusion, her polite concern.
Instead, her eyes narrow with an expression of intense, professional interest.
LINDA
> It’s the superposition. They can’t maintain a coherent state when you try to record them. Collapses the wave function every time.
> (a beat)
> You’d need a different kind of observation.
She finishes wiping the other table and walks away, leaving a profound silence in her wake.
John and Terry stare after her, stunned. Terry lowers his phone.
TERRY
> Did… did the barista just explain the observer effect?
JOHN
> She… I think she did.
John looks from Linda’s retreating back to the table. The equation is growing, faster now. More urgent.
The symbols of theoretical physics dissolve, rearranging into something new. Numbers. Vectors. Coordinates.
Terry’s cynical armor finally cracks. He leans over the table, his phone forgotten.
TERRY
> What the hell is that? That looks like… a vector analysis.
JOHN
> It is.
> (a dawning dread)
> It’s a trajectory. Mass, velocity, angle of incidence…
He traces the final line of the calculation with his finger. It points directly at the large plate-glass window at the front of the shop. The numbers resolve into a final, terrifying clarity.
TERRY
> It’s a countdown. That number there… it’s changing. Decreasing.
John’s eyes are wide with a terrible understanding. His voice is barely a whisper.
JOHN
> It’s not a countdown. It’s a prediction. A calculation. The numbers describe the precise physical properties of an object that is about to… arrive.
TERRY
> Arrive from where?
As he speaks...
SOUND of a high-pitched, metallic SCREECH tears through the air from outside.
Through the window, people on the pavement stop, turn, and look UP at the sky.
John doesn’t need to look. He knows. He grabs Terry’s arm, his grip surprisingly strong.
JOHN
> (hissing)
> Get down. Under the table. Now!
Terry stares at him, paralyzed with fear and confusion, as the SCREECH grows impossibly loud.
Sunlight streams through the large plate-glass window of a quiet, neighborhood coffee shop. The gentle HUM of an espresso machine and the murmur of distant conversation.
JOHN (68), a man with the thoughtful, weary eyes of a lifelong academic, sits alone at a small table. He stares intently at his untouched cup of coffee.
Beside it, a small porcelain bowl of sugar cubes. And on the dark wood of the table, five sugar cubes sit in a PERFECTLY STRAIGHT LINE.
John blinks. Leans closer, his breath held.
A sixth cube, sitting apart from the others, TWITCHES. It lifts onto one edge, wobbles for a moment, then slides with impossible smoothness into place at the end of the line. Six perfect cubes.
John’s eyes dart around. He glances up at a ceiling vent, then places a hand flat on the table, feeling for vibrations. Nothing. The movement was too deliberate.
His hand trembles as he fumbles for his phone. He has to get proof. He isn't going mad.
He angles the phone, thumbs open the camera app.
CLICK. He takes a photo. Then another.
He looks down at the screen.
INSERT - PHONE SCREEN
The photo shows the coffee cup and six sugar cubes scattered randomly across the table, as if knocked by a careless sleeve. Nothing like the impossible, ordered line he is seeing with his own eyes.
John lowers the phone, his face a mask of disbelief and frustration. He looks from the phone back to the table. The perfect line of six cubes remains.
A new voice cuts through his focus.
TERRY (O.S.)
> Forgetting what sugar is for, John? It goes *in* the coffee, you know.
TERRY (late 60s), a man radiating smug, pragmatic confidence, slides into the chair opposite John. He places his own coffee down with a clatter.
TERRY
> Dissolves. Entropy. Your favourite subject.
John doesn’t look at him. He points a shaky finger at the table.
JOHN
> (whispering)
> Look.
On the table, a second row of cubes has begun to form beneath the first. Two cubes slide into place as they watch.
Terry squints, follows John's gaze. He sighs, a theatrical display of patience.
TERRY
> I see sugar cubes. On a table. I also see a man who has clearly forgotten to take his medication this morning. Are you building a little Stonehenge? Worshipping the caffeine gods?
JOHN
> They’re moving, Terry. On their own. They’re forming… an equation.
Terry leans forward, his face a caricature of clinical assessment. He squints dramatically at the cubes.
TERRY
> Ah, yes. I see it now. ‘Two plus two equals fish.’ John, you’ve finally cracked it. Your Nobel Prize is in the post.
> (sitting back)
> Honestly, if you’re this bored in your retirement, I can lend you a lawnmower.
John ignores him. His gaze is locked on the table.
CLOSE ON - SUGAR CUBES
The cubes are now forming complex symbols. One group arranges itself into a clear ħ. Another forms a Ψ. The language of quantum mechanics, rendered in crystalline sugar.
LINDA (20s), the barista, with tattoos of constellations spiraling up one arm, approaches to wipe a neighboring table.
LINDA
> Everything alright over here, gentlemen?
Terry gestures dismissively towards John without looking up from his phone.
TERRY
> John’s having a conversation with the condiments. He thinks they’re doing his quantum homework.
Linda’s gaze falls on the table. John braces for her confusion, her polite concern.
Instead, her eyes narrow with an expression of intense, professional interest.
LINDA
> It’s the superposition. They can’t maintain a coherent state when you try to record them. Collapses the wave function every time.
> (a beat)
> You’d need a different kind of observation.
She finishes wiping the other table and walks away, leaving a profound silence in her wake.
John and Terry stare after her, stunned. Terry lowers his phone.
TERRY
> Did… did the barista just explain the observer effect?
JOHN
> She… I think she did.
John looks from Linda’s retreating back to the table. The equation is growing, faster now. More urgent.
The symbols of theoretical physics dissolve, rearranging into something new. Numbers. Vectors. Coordinates.
Terry’s cynical armor finally cracks. He leans over the table, his phone forgotten.
TERRY
> What the hell is that? That looks like… a vector analysis.
JOHN
> It is.
> (a dawning dread)
> It’s a trajectory. Mass, velocity, angle of incidence…
He traces the final line of the calculation with his finger. It points directly at the large plate-glass window at the front of the shop. The numbers resolve into a final, terrifying clarity.
TERRY
> It’s a countdown. That number there… it’s changing. Decreasing.
John’s eyes are wide with a terrible understanding. His voice is barely a whisper.
JOHN
> It’s not a countdown. It’s a prediction. A calculation. The numbers describe the precise physical properties of an object that is about to… arrive.
TERRY
> Arrive from where?
As he speaks...
SOUND of a high-pitched, metallic SCREECH tears through the air from outside.
Through the window, people on the pavement stop, turn, and look UP at the sky.
John doesn’t need to look. He knows. He grabs Terry’s arm, his grip surprisingly strong.
JOHN
> (hissing)
> Get down. Under the table. Now!
Terry stares at him, paralyzed with fear and confusion, as the SCREECH grows impossibly loud.