Six

The coffee nearly spilled as he sat at his table. A pile of papers in imminent doom of permanent staining. He plucked one from the mire, and clicked his pen. Click. Click. Read and scribble and read and read and read and scribble. His writing made a scraping sound through the paper on the glass, so he wrote about that. He wrote about the spilled coffee that didn't spill, and he wrote about the events of the day.
The waitress brought him breakfast. He cautiously covered his scattered sheets, but thanked her for her kindness.