Another oddity before I go to bed: an old girlfriend of mine dropped by while I was eating lunch. She’s a voluble chick, almost never has a problem keeping the flow of conversation going. Today, though, she wouldn’t meet my eyes, kept giggling nervously and giving me odd, penetrating little glances that I’d barely catch. After about fifteen minutes of wondering when she was going to give me the bad news (I was sure by now that she had some, instead of the oral sex I’d been secretly hoping for) I asked her, “Is it my baby?”
“What?” she practically yelped at me. She stumbled over a few words, none of which seemed very relevant, or even capable of being strung into a coherent sentence for that matter.
“What’s wrong with you? Just tell me the bad news already.”
“Nothing,” she declared, and tried to start in on another random topic, stumbling a bit as she tried to catch her stride. I decided she’d come to say something important, and needed to tell it her own way, when she was ready. To hell with that, I thought. Already, I’d had to eat my lunch sitting up, without the book I was engrossed in, and use a napkin. Hadn’t I suffered enough already? I stared at her, knowing she’d break if I could just keep the pressure on. She always had before. In the most charming of ways, too, if I remembered correctly.
“It’s the eyes,” she said, tittering and blushing.
“Eyes,” I echoed sympathetically, wondering if I could get past her to the door if necessary.
“The eyes on your cup. I remember thinking they were watching us before, and here they are again.”
I looked at my coffee cup. Sure, there were eyes on it, in the middle of a cartoonish alien face. But they didn’t seem all that intimidating to me. I couldn’t even remember if she and I had been dating when I bought it in Las Vegas.
“You used to leave that cup all over the place, it was your favorite. I used to keep my eyes closed when you went down on me if the cup was in the room. It was, like, always staring at me,” she enlightened me.
I couldn’t help it, laughter burst out of me, and it was all I could do to control it. Here I’d thought she’d been in ecstasy, her eyes squeezed tight as the sensations rolled through her, and all that time, she was hiding from a coffee mug. Quite a blow to my sexual ego. After she (awkwardly) left, I gazed into the mellow regard of my blessed vessel (read: coffee cup) and thought idly of all the things it had probably seen, all the things it could have told me. How many one-nighters, temporary girlfriends and boyfriends had it witnessed? Which one was the best? Whose performance was the best? Who’s the sexiest bisexual in the world?
If only mugs could talk. I sure could use some constructive criticism.