The HERS Cup

I was created as one of two, the “HERS” from a “HIS and HERS” white porcelain coffee cup set. Handmade by a young artist, I stood proud on the table, watching people go by. I wasn’t flawless. I knew my rim wasn’t a perfect circle, and the curve of the black “R” bent back, almost forming a “B”. Who would buy me? I craved to have warm liquid poured into me, to be held and owned, to go into someone’s home.

At times, people touched me or picked me up, their soft, warm hands both comforting and freeing - only to put me down again and again. As the days went by, I started to give up hope. Perhaps we’d always return to the same cabinet, alongside the other beautiful handmade, unsold cups, plates, and bakeware, never knowing what it was like to be used or owned.

It was the market's last day, and I gave it my all. I stood as tall as I could, angling myself just right to catch the sun. I glanced at my partner cup, nudging him to do the same. HIS adjusted himself, showing off the curve of his “S” as though it were far more elegant than it actually was.

A woman stopped and looked at me. She was holding hands with a man. They seemed young, smiling and hopeful. She lifted me, touched my misshapen “R”, and ran a finger over my imperfect rim. With everything I had, I tried to radiate warmth and comfort.

“They’re perfect,” she said to the man, and he nodded.

If I could cry then, I would have. Money exchanged hands, and before I knew it, HIS and I were wrapped in paper and placed in a bag. From within our wrapping, we reached out to one another—nervous, but barely containing our excitement. This was it. It was finally happening.

We were unwrapped on a cluttered kitchen counter, surrounded by boxes. The woman lifted me up and examined again, and once more, I tried to exude belonging. This was my home now. I would contribute however I could. I was ready to be used. But instead, she put dish soap on a sponge and scrubbed me inside and out. I was left to dry on the dish rack next to HIS, who radiated calm and confidence, while I barely held myself together. Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow would be the day.

The next morning, the sun had barely risen when I heard their voices— soft and murmuring from the living room. The kettle boiled beside me. She picked me up. HIS was taken by him.

We were placed side by side on the counter, our handles nearly touching, as a spoonful of fine, dry powder was sprinkled into me, and then into HIS. Boiling water followed, dissolving the powder into fragrant black liquid. The smell was intoxicating. A dash of milk swirled into us, and we were carried to a small table and set on small wooden coasters.

They sat side by side at the small round table, laughing and talking when it happened. She wrapped her hands around me. I held most of the heat in and tried to let out only comforting warmness so she wouldn’t hurt her fingers. Her hands felt like love and acceptance, and I wanted to give all that back to her— and more. I felt embarrassed that I could only offer instant coffee. She picked me up, placed her lips on my imperfect rim and exhaled softly. Yes, I gave comfort. I may be imperfect, but I did it.

Every morning it was our ritual. HIS and I were taken from the cabinet, coffee powder sprinkled in, hot boiling water poured, and then a splash of milk. They drank from us with their voices warming me like an invisible caress, their laughter felt like the final glazing, the final touch that made me complete. Everything was perfect then. Even when I wasn’t being used, I was home with the sweet sounds of cooking, cleaning, and talking.

A year later, something wonderful happened.

The pitch of their voices was high, and I could hear a big box being placed on the kitchen bench. I tried to peer out through the small gap between the cabinet doors. We heard an unsettling grinding noise and then her squealing with glee. The cabinet doors burst open, and I saw it: a new device, big and red. Gleaming with steel fangs and dark surfaces, it dominated the space. In its shadowy rear, I glimpsed a stash of glossy, oval-shaped beans, glossy and dense.

With precision, I was positioned beneath a cavernous mouth. The whole thing could have shattered me if it wanted to. Buttons were pressed and then rich brown liquid was poured inside. Not instant coffee. This was something new: thicker, richer, aromatic. I felt glamorous. A splash of milk, and I was picked up and immediately pressed to her lips. I didn’t have time to prepare myself, I was so caught up in the excitement. She distanced her lips a little too quickly. Have I done something wrong?

No, I misread it. She hummed in contentment. It was… joy and pleasure. I was what I was always meant to be for her.

It was HIS’s turn next, and I saw him trying to inch away towards the cabinet. I tried to comfort him from afar, embodying the joy I felt. Soon enough we were both placed on the table, side by side, now cherished, held, and loved. From that day on, I was out twice a day. Once when we were together all four our us and again after lunch when I had her all to myself. I saw HIS’s lonely exterior forced into darkness when the cabinet closed. But my sadness was soon forgotten because as much as I enjoyed the shared mornings, the afternoons were our special time. She would hold me longer, savoring the coffee's aroma with each deep breath, and take her time sipping from me slowly.

However, that excitement was short-lived. Soon I wasn’t taken out at all! The cabinet would open, but only HIS was taken out. We were no longer placed side by side. Soon other cups blocked my path and in between them all from the small gap I could still see her in the kitchen, but she had changed. She still had the same beautiful voice, but her stomach grew more every day. Was she okay? Will I ever see the light of day again? Sometimes she would open the cabinet and move the other cups aside. Hope surged as she picked me up and smelled me. But no—she always put me back, choosing another cup instead, leaving me confined to darkness. The coffee machine still worked every morning, but only one cup of coffee was being made. In the darkness, I waited in hope.

I don’t know how long it had been, but one day I heard another voice in the house. An insistent young voice, crying and demanding. The cabinet door opened. I stood there, not even trying. I had all but given up when she picked me up. I was ready to hold on to the softness of her touch before being placed back. Except, I wasn’t. I was placed in the coffee machine’s drip tray. I couldn’t believe it! Was it going to happen again? The loud grinding noise was like a sweet melody, and the coffee pouring into me was so rich, vibrant and caressing. It was perfect. A splash of milk was poured and swirled inside me, making me dizzy with sensations. She didn’t drink from me immediately, instead she placed me on the table, alone. Where was HIS and where was he? But the thought was fleeting. Did I really care? I just wanted to be used again.

She sat in front of me, her hands holding onto every part of my exterior. I was so gleeful that I could only hope my structure was still holding and I wasn’t embarrassing myself by letting coffee spill from the side. She brought her nose right up to my rim, inhaled deeply and sighed. Then she took the smallest sip. It was a perfect moment.

Then the small insistent voice cried, and she was gone. I held the coffee warm for as long as I could. He came downstairs at some point and took out HIS and made coffee. We were placed side by side, as we once had, but she was missing. I could tell HIS was happy to see me out and inched a bit closer to my handle. But soon, HIS was gone, and I was alone with cold coffee.

She came back eventually. I was embarrassed. I had nothing amazing to offer. If I could, I would take myself away from the table and into the sink so she wouldn’t be tempted to drink from me. I wasn’t good enough now. No wonder she hadn’t used me in so long, I couldn’t even hold onto warm coffee. How would I give her warmth and comfort now?

She sat in front of me, inhaled the faded coffee aroma and took another sip. I braced myself. I would be cast aside now, never to be used again. But she kept drinking until I was half full and the crying noise resumed. Once again, she was gone. When she returned, she gulped the rest of the coffee in one go and placed me in the sink.

In the solitude of my thoughts in the cabinet that night, I wasn’t sure if I would ever see the light of day again, but the same process resumed the next day and every day after that. It seemed that the crying noise was a reason to stop drinking fresh coffee altogether.

Then one day she stayed with me, drinking until the coffee was gone. But something new was next to me, a small electronic device that seemed to steal her attention. In addition to the now-crawling infant—who I recognized as the crying voice’s owner—I had even more competition. Her hands no longer embraced me. Instead, her fingers tapped the oval-shaped electronic device, and her warm fingers only wrapped themselves around my handle. Even on the rare occasions when it was the four of us again, the attention was focused on either the crawling infant or the electronic devices. Soft talking and laughter were exchanged with rushed sentences. Still, that first sip held magic and I knew it. And I made the coffee aroma as appealing as possible and held the warmth of it every time she stepped away for as long as I could.

Days bled into months, and again I was forgotten in the cabinet. HIS was taken out every morning, and I could only appreciate the world through the small crack between the cabinet doors or when they opened or when other cups were taken out. She didn’t take me out and hold me like she once had and even though it didn’t even feel like she missed me, I knew my time would come. I could see the swell of her belly and the walking child. It was only a matter of time. I held space. Things change, and I would be here whenever she needed me. I would be ready to offer comfort and warmth, even when the coffee became cold.