Pink Mug

A youngish couple, a handsome blond and an elegant brunette slowly approached the kitchen accessories area in an IKEA. They talked in whispers, passing by various practical appliances that reminded them of things they didn’t want to think about. When they arrived in the mug aisle, she stopped and turned to face him,

           “I just don’t know what to do,” she said.

           “You’ll try again later, what else can you do?”

           “No way!” she hissed but in a moment began sobbing quietly. He stared at her for a bit, silent, and drew her near him.

           “Emmie, so many people fail the bar,” he murmured.

           “Most pass,” she stepped away from him.

           He was silent again for a couple seconds, and then picked up a pink mug from the shelf, turned it around, examining it from every angle.

           “How pretty,” he said handing it to her.

           “Yeah, lovely.”

           “Do you want it?”

           “Oh, I have too many already. I had a whole thing for mugs at one point.”

           “Don’t they remind you of…” he began but stopped mid-sentence, “well, I really like it, and I’m going to buy it. If you want, it could be your mug at my place. It’ll remind me of you when you’re at work.”

           She smiled at him. He put his arm around her again and they walked away carrying the mug.

***

           When they arrived they poured boiling water over me three times, and left me to dry in the kitchen while they made love in another room. Later, they came back wearing identical white t-shirts, though hers was way too big. He picked me up,

           “Tea?”

           “Sure,” she said.

           I wasn’t the only thing in that apartment that belonged to Emma. There was also her favorite soap, toilet paper, Portuguese wine, and that lovely tea he poured in me: black currant rooibos.

           He made it only when she came and used no other cup for that purpose. Back then she used to wear dark lipstick that stained my edges and his lips, marked us, like a signature. They would watch indie movies that were too original and abstract for my taste, but I would still be happy since then she would hold me close, tracing her unmanicured fingers round my rim, laughing before taking a sip, her breath smelling like bubble gum.

           With him, it was different. He really did use me a lot when she was away working at her family’s law firm, as I learned later. He worked from home. He would wake up around twelve, and still in his pajamas, would make black coffee – liquid depression, I called it. It made me sad to imagine he thought of her while drinking it, from me, while staring blankly at his computer. He was an artist, a writer, working on a novel. He said he wrote ten pages a day on average, but it took him hours. Most of the time he sat completely still, but then there were moments when he typed without a break, fast and loud. He barely ate, and only shaved and got dressed in the evening when either Emma or Natalia came home.

           I haven’t mentioned Natalia yet, and I should have. When she came, I was locked in a glass cabinet where somehow nobody noticed me. She seemed much older than the two of them, perhaps in her late thirties, or early forties. She paced around the house and gave him forehead kisses when he made good dinner. When she came home she would inquire about his novel and then would sit in his seat while he stood at her side like a school boy, waiting for feedback. He was dead serious, or perhaps simply nervous, and she made funny comments and deleted chunks of text from the thing. From what I gathered, she knew what she was doing; she worked in publishing, after all. Plus, she owned the apartment – 90m² in a tenement house in the city center. There was molding on the walls, real oak on the floors, and marble in the bathrooms and kitchen. It was all you could ask for, really.

           But then we were both waiting for Emma. I was, at least. She did pass the bar at some point, and though that day, instead of tea they had champagne and strawberries, I still felt as if I were celebrating with them. I remember her being so happy only one other time, three years later. It was early spring, a lovely Saturday. Natalia had left early in the morning for a conference in another city, and Emma was to arrive home at two p.m.. He took me out on the balcony, to freeze, and inhale car exhaust fumes. He adored cars, but some attracted his attention more than others. One of those was a lovely squeaky clean black Porsche Cayenne that stopped right in front of our building. The driver parked it with utmost care, and opened the door slowly, probably terrified of ruining the paint. Then the driver came out and turned out to be our Emma. She was dressed in a white fur and had large sunglasses on. He leaped forward and started waving at her; she noticed and waved back. She checked twice if the door was locked and then disappeared inside our building.

           In a minute she was at the door, and he left me on the dining table to let her in.

           “Well hello,” he said embracing and kissing her.

           “They made me a partner!” she cried.

           He looked at her with raised eyebrows, “you’re kidding!”

           “Nope.”

           “A partner at thirty-one!”

           She nodded, beaming. They both jumped up and kissed again.

           “Why didn’t you tell me anything!”

           “I didn’t want to spoil it! But it’s all done, finally.”

           “God, I can’t believe it!”

           They looked at each other smiling silently.

           “And I splurged a little on a car. I mean, I’m paying for it in installments, but still. Everything is going to change now, you know,” she said, “I mean, I finally know what I’m doing, and they see it too. It took ages to convince them, but it’s all going to be worth it in the end, I guess.”

           Over the next six months we rarely saw the Porsche, though. It would be an idiosyncrasy in the landscape, could raise suspicions. I also saw less of that lovely tea he used to make for her; instead, I was filled with almond milk coffee she preferred all of a sudden. She came home wearing tailored pants and stilettos; her hair became shorter and her nails longer and they made a funny clicking noise when she tapped me. She also came home a bit later and sometimes fell asleep on his chest as they watched their usual films. She still laughed and spoke to him of his work, though.

She also started seeing a therapist. She attended sessions online, during her lunch break in her car, because she didn’t want anyone at work to know. She said she wasn’t struggling, simply wanted to do even better, and that had she started earlier she’d be in a much better place now. He did not like the therapy talk. In those moments he always grew a little quiet and stiff. She saw, and applied a little more pressure to her grip on me and quickly changed the subject.

           One day, she came home particularly animated.

           “I went to my second group session,” she said, and took a sip of her coffee; her lips were sticky with freshly applied lip gloss and tasted like raspberries.

           “How was it?”

           “So weird! You’ll never guess who I met there!”

           “No, I’ll wait for you to tell me.”

           “Sebastian!”

           He raised an eyebrow, “what was he doing there?”

           “He was a part of the group before, and he’s been seeing that therapist one-on-one for the past couple years.”

“So, you put him in therapy.”

           She sighed, “I think he would’ve gone anyway at some point. We had a real talk, finally. I apologized properly and he forgave me.”

           “Wow.”

           “Well, it’s been years. We’ve both changed a lot.”

           “And what is he doing?”

           “Divorce. I think I told you before.”

           “Right. A crappy field.”

           “I don’t know. It’s tough, but I guess it gives him a sense of purpose. And the money isn’t bad, from what I can tell.”

           “You mean he’s rich now.”

           “I mean he works in a big firm; it can’t be bad.”

           “And is he with anybody? Does he have kids, or something?”

           “No, I think. He does have a girlfriend, though. A child therapist, actually,” she said calmly, with a faint smile on her lips, “I haven’t met her, but I bet she’s a really sweet person. Have you written anything today?”

           She didn’t speak about Sebastian off her own accord again, but she continued attending the group therapy sessions, and there were brief moments when at home she just sat quietly on the edge of the sofa, staring blankly at the floor or ceiling. When he asked her about it, she said she was thinking of some client. But then she also ate less, talked less, and forgot things. At one point she left a gold bracelet in the bathroom and Natalia found it. She had a huge fight with him about it, and he had to get his sister, Ada, to claim it was hers. She did it, but also gave him a lecture on everything he was doing wrong in his life.

           And then one day Emma came home later than she said she would, solemn and more distant than ever. When he asked her what was wrong, she gave him the classic, universally dreaded,

           “We need to talk.”

           He was sitting on his bed holding a nail clipper, and I stood empty, at the bedside table. She sat down next to him and put her hand on his shoulder,

           “Your sister is worried sick about you,” she said gently.

           “I gathered this much.”

           “And you know why?”

           “I do,” he sighed and began clipping his nails, “but she was always like that. I was always a little silly in her eyes. She thought that even when I was studying law.”

           “She loves you.”

           “Damn, Emma, when did you become so unoriginal,” he hissed but then added calmly, “you love me too and yet you’re not being a nag.”

           “I wouldn’t say she’s a nag. She just has a different worldview.”

           “One where you need a wife, kids and a law job to deserve decent treatment.”

           “She doesn’t even think that. Besides, what’s so wrong with these things? All she wants is for you to perhaps try another direction.”

           “Law, you mean? I haven’t looked at anything related to it for the past four years and I feel great about it.”

           “You have the wrong approach. You just haven’t found anything that would interest you because you weren’t looking long enough.”

           “So you agree with her?” for a moment he stopped filing and looked at her.

           She considered this for a moment, “I do believe you’re perfectly capable of creating a meaningful, and financially stable career for yourself.”

           “That’s what I’m currently trying to do.”

           “Without the help of your girlfriend, I should’ve added.”

           “True, Natalia won’t help me much in the legal field.”

           “I don’t think she’s helping you much in the literary field either.”

           “And you’re an expert on that too.”

           “We could find you a real agent, you know.”

           “Who’s we?”

           “Well, Sebastian has a friend who’s an in-house in a publishing firm. We could figure something out.”

           He let out a mocking laugh, “I wonder what you’d have to do for that to work! Emma, don’t be ridiculous, the man has some dignity, albeit very little.”

           “He’s not as vindictive as you think.”

           “Then he must have Stockholm syndrome.”

           Emma opened her mouth, and her cheeks became somewhat pinker.

           “I wouldn’t be surprised if he still found you attractive, Emma.”

           For a moment she stared silently at her silk skirt and then bent sideways to glance inside me. She looked disappointed when she saw the sad coffee residue at the bottom and put me away.

           “Well,” she said, “in that case you really could try with a legal job. There are so many interesting things you could do, you know.”

           “You sound like a university ad. Why are you telling me this? I’m shocked you of all people would think I could change my mind.”

           “I’m also the only person that could actually help you.”

           He stood up, “how? By hiring me? And then what?”

           “No, not necessarily. All I’m saying is I’m ready to figure something out, as long as you want to do anything.”

           She did not look at him, and he crossed his arms.

           “What is this even about, Emma? Why are we talking about this all of a sudden?”

           “I don’t know. I just think you’re wasting your talent, I guess,” she said quietly.

           “Oh, really?”

           “Look, with all due respect, I don’t think Natalia wants to see you published. I don’t want to push you in any direction, I just want to see you moving forward.”

           “Is this about Natalia?”

           She lifted her eyes.

           “I said no such thing, and I really meant well.”

           “Of course, you don’t have the guts to tell me what you really think. It’s easier for you to pretend you simply care about my career,” he said.

           “Well, you're right. But what is so weird about me wanting you to leave a loveless relationship you’re not even getting anything meaningful out of?”

           “You signed up for this yourself, Emma.”

           “I sort of thought you loved me.”

           “Really? That’s why you did all this? That’s why you broke off your engagement and ruined Sebastian’s career?”

          Her eyes widened and face turned red, but she remained in her seat.

           “He is way better off now than he was at the firm," she said, "besides, we wouldn’t have survived working together.”

           “Really? Try saying this to somebody who was about to become a partner. Were you jealous of him, or what?”

           “How can you say such a thing? I told you I was in love with you, and I thought you felt the same.”

           “If only this were true. So what, you stopped loving him all of a sudden after all these years? Or did you feel threatened? Weird it happened so late, cause he’s always been more talented than you. But maybe since back then you were still in university, and he was already an attorney, you hoped one day you’d reach his level, or better yet, that you’d surpass it.”

           “Me? Jealous of my own fiance?”

           “Well yeah. You seemed happier now with that promotion than when you announced you were getting married. You got what you wanted, so what is it now, you’re looking for another box to check? Is it to be me? Do you really think I’m the right person for that, or are you holding onto whatever you have because you’ve already lost one good opportunity?”

           “You call me wanting to be with you desperation? And what should I call you being with a woman simply so that you can delude yourself you’re doing something important? At least you can have a nice lifestyle without having to make a penny. Who cares how long it will last.”

           “You can criticize me as much as you like, but you still chose all this.”

           “And every day, you are choosing to ruin your life.”

           “At least I’m not trying to change and save a person who explicitly says they don’t want it.”

           Emma stood up. Her eyes glistened, perhaps with tears.

           “So you’re saying this won’t work? You don’t want to be with me? Why? Do you not love me?”

           He sighed and touched her arm gently, “why are you doing this to yourself, Emma? Just accept you’ve made a mistake with Sebastian if you feel like you did. You could’ve had a committed relationship with a successful man, but you chose an affair with an unpublished writer. You’ve lost one thing but gained another. It makes no sense for you to be making yourself feel bad about this, that’s all.”

           She looked into his eyes and moved his hand away.

           “So your answer is no?” she said.

           “You already know what it is.”

           She breathed out sharply and took a step back. She crossed her arms and bit her lip for a moment,

           “I’m sleeping with him,” she said quietly.

           He moved back rapidly, “you’re what?” he cried.

           “Since two weeks ago. He broke up with his girlfriend.”

           “And if I told you I wanted to be with you, you’d leave him again?”

           She was silent for a while, “no. I just wanted to know what you’d say. I didn’t think this would be serious, he and I, I mean. But he said he still loves me, and now that I think about it, I guess perhaps I would’ve been happier had I married him earlier.”

           He stared at her wide-eyed, “so he doesn’t know you’re here?”

           “He does,” she said, somewhat defensively. He raised an eyebrow.

           “It’s okay, I won’t tell him about all this. But you better go now.”

           They stood where they were for a couple more seconds and then they went into the corridor. She bent down to put on her shoes and took her office bag from the floor. She stopped in front of the door.

           “Bye Emma,” he said.

           “Bye. I’m sorry.”

           “Don’t be. Just please don’t invite me to your wedding.”

           Her face twitched into a brief involuntary smile, and she walked out of the door. He stood still, staring at it for a while, and then went back into the bedroom. He inhaled sharply and looked around. His gaze fell upon me. Before I could grasp what was happening, he seized me and smashed me against the wall,

           “Fucking bitch!” he yelled.