Day 1: Object
This is a response to the February Flash writing hosted by Short Reads.
I have two mugs.
The first has travelled more than most people as I moved across the world for work. I bought it in my hometown on a whim because it was whimsical. In the discounted defect section, this white mug, thin rimmed with a dotted textured exterior beckoned me closer. On either side was a black patterned heart bordered with dots. Held in hand, it felt like Braille and a light hand massage. This pleased my aesthetic taste, and its capacity to hold 500 ml of caffeine was an added bonus. I tried drinking tea out of it once—I didn’t finish the tea…
When I first arrived in my new home, I took that mug to work to establish a sense of comfort. Within two days, it was back in my kitchen. This mug represents home and calm, and quiet mornings before the world makes demands of me. With its never to be removed coffee stains, and ever-increasing hairline cracks, I know it won’t last for much longer. But this is the mug that has held the last remnants of the Cuban coffee I bought in Viñales. It has held my experiments in coffee-making, and my exploration of different brews and blends. It has sustained my morning writing sessions, and my rainy morning walks. It has held me as much as I have held it.
The second mug is a more recent purchase and came packaged in a beautiful box. There were two. Both had the same design, but in different colours - one white and red, the other black and white. The first travelled to work, and the latter remained at home. It is my designated tea mug. Low, thick rimmed, and gaudy-handled, it juxtaposes my coffee mug. But it, too, is textured. Not dotted or bumpy, but indented and heart-shaped. I sometimes get the whiffs of the rose tea as I drink my black tea. It clashes somewhat with the milk, but the scent is inviting regardless. The mug holds onto scents of the tea I’ve consumed, like I hold onto memories of the places I’ve called home.
As I write this, it is Sunday morning and the rain has just stopped. I am taken to a different life. A cold December evening. A Saturday evening in central London. One where you are sitting opposite me in a café. I imagine that I had hot chocolate though I can’t be too sure. I know that my specs had steamed up when we walked through the door. I can’t remember our conversation. But I do remember that I didn’t want the night to end. And as things go, that is my favourite memory of you.
My last clear memory of you is us parting ways on the subway that night. You went left, I went right. I said something along the lines that this may be the last time we ever see each other. Perhaps you said something about my being dramatic. Over fifteen years later, both throwaway comments remain true.
It is Sunday morning. I lean back on my chair as the thunder rolls through the island sky. We are set for a rainy day. We are set for a week of rainy weather. The type where I’ll light the candles and incense and read the days away. The type where slowness means stillness and memories arrive unprovoked yet provocative. Your name crosses my mind, but I won’t let it pass my lips…
I finally found a coffee blend I enjoy here: Cà phê Đà Lạt. It is late afternoon, and too late for me to be drinking coffee. I sip it quietly and trace the braille bumps as the rain puts me in a trace. A memory of us flashes through my mind and leaves me confused. I don’t feel the memory of you anymore. I don’t see the side of your shoulder or crane to look up at you. I don’t, can’t hear your voice, just the music I played that drove you insane. I have always considered you my unfinished story. The man I love(d). The man who was not ready to love me. I put the mug to my lips to take a last sip; but the cup is already empty…