A short story by Elise Clark (cover photo from Pinterest)
I collect mugs. Not in a weird, hoarder way. More like your midwestern mom who follows behind you and creates momentos of everything you’ve ever touched.
Okay, so maybe it’s in a bit of a weird way.
Still, I love collecting them. I have souvenir mugs, the thermos mugs made to keep your drinks warm, and the miscellaneous mugs I’ve picked up along the way. I’m usually a very clean, organized person. It’s kind of my thing. But something about opening my cabinet and scanning it, trying to tell which mug I’m in the mood for… it just makes me happy.
I love knowing that each mug holds a memory. There’s my yellow submarine mug I got to remind me of my grandpa, and every time I see it my heart warms. Or there’s my mug from my trip to Paris (Las Vegas) as the only trip I could afford as my own “you survived college!” gift to myself. Better yet, there’s my very first mug: one of those classic letter ones from Target. I got an O for Olivia—my name—after begging my mom for the entire hour we walked around the store. Each time I hold that mug in my hands it’s like I’m right back in Elementary School and sipping my hot chocolate while my mom drinks her coffee.
But my favorite mug has always been a round, solid white one. I seem to reach for it almost instinctively. It’s fairly plain and simple, but I’ve grown attached to it. Three years ago, I was feeling miserable after failing a final for my chemistry class. So I decided I would treat myself to a new mug to make me feel better. After getting to the right aisle in Target, I immediately picked it up. I don’t know exactly what it was that made it so, but it was perfect. It felt right in my hands, and the handle was big enough to hold—which should be the case for all mugs, but I digress—It’s the perfect size and shape for anything: soup, hot chocolate, tea, and ice cream (which tastes best in a mug, thank me later).
Then, the unspeakable happened.
I broke it.
I don’t know exactly how it happened. Honestly, I’m not even sure when. One day, I opened the cupboard and there it was: chipped in all its fallen glory.
Suddenly the white looked less bright, and anything I ate or drank from it tasted worse. Olivia, I tried to remind myself, it’s just a chip. It’s not the end of the world!
And the voice in my head was right. It wasn’t the end of the world: more like a sign the end was coming.
It was a Tuesday, maybe Wednesday, and my college roommate Emily had stopped by to see my new apartment.
“Dude,” she gasped, looking around my kitchen. “This is, like, spotless.”
I smiled. It was, in fact, spotless. I would know because I scoured every inch of the place to ensure just that. I cannot live in a messy space, or, rather, I refuse to try. Some may call it OCD, I just call it “absolutely necessary and don’t you dare suggest otherwise.”
“Thanks,” I shrugged, acting all nonchalant. Because, really, she knew me. I was always running after her to wipe a spill or sweep the floor beneath her feet. Thankfully, Emily is a saint and would only roll her eyes playfully while side-stepping out of my way.
She walked through my clean space, running her fingers along my white countertop I had only just finished washing, glancing up at my freshly dusted lights, and then turning her head at my blue cabinets. “Wow,” she said, turning to face me. Her short, black hair shook as she nodded. “You’re perfect.”
Blushing slightly, I laughed as I swiped my bangs out of my eyes. “I’m both flattered and embarrassed now,” I grinned before looking toward one of my cabinets. “Care for some tea?” I walked over to my mugs. I had pulled my sandy hair back in a ponytail, and tried not to roll my eyes as I felt flyaways escape my carefully crafted look.
Without waiting for a response, I took down two of my mugs: A star wars one from Disneyland, and my plain, white one I always like to give my guests to show them just how great my mugs can get.
“I remember those!” Emily said, walking up behind me to peer at the others hidden away on the shelves. “I can’t believe you kept all of them,” she smiled to herself.
“Of course I did,” I shrugged. “Everyone has their thing, and I’m the crazy cup lady.” I picked up some tea bags, scanning for the good flavors.
“I’ll have honey in mine, Crazy Cup Lady,” Emily said, and I could hear the humor in her voice.
“Oh no,” I gasped just as I turned back to my mugs.
“Well, I don’t need honey—”
“It’s broken,” I whispered under my breath.
“What is,” she said, walking the few steps to my side to survey the damage.
And there it was, plain for anyone to see. A crack was forming in the side of my favorite, spotless white mug. The color of fresh fallen snow and angel wings and fluffy clouds and all good things in the world.
“What do you mean it broke?” Emily asked, tilting her head to get a closer look.
Well, it was plain for anyone but Emily to see. But she wasn’t the type to notice things like that.
“Cracked,” I said, handing it to Emily.
“Oh, Olivia, I’m sorry.”
“So you see it?”
“I mean, yeah, I guess.” Upon seeing my dejected face, she frowned. “Was I supposed to pretend I didn’t?”
“No,” I moaned, then shrugged slightly. “I don’t know.”
“Okay, well, it’s not that bad.”
“Sure it isn’t,” I frowned.
“Truly, Olivia, the mug is fine. It’s charming. It looks used now, it’s cute!” Emily gave me an exaggerated smile.
My frown somehow deepened. “It’s broken.”
“Who cares,” Emily shrugged.
I care, I thought to myself.
Really, I have nothing against this mug; it’s served me quite well. But if you turn it just right, you see it.
The break.
And, yes, Emily was right. It’s not really a big crack. Not enough to justify throwing the mug away, or to cut your lip on it while drinking from the side. It’s still plenty usable, which means I have to tolerate it.
I don’t even know if the crack formed the day I pulled it out to share with Emily. Maybe it had been slowly growing bigger each time, only to be noticed when it was big enough to cause a problem.
Did I do it?
It doesn’t really matter: the damage has been done. Now I have a broken mug and no option but to live with it.
Only, I couldn’t. I found myself turning it to hide the crack, avoiding it with my eyes whenever I could. But the knowledge still haunted me.
I tried hiding it in the very back of my cabinet, but somehow knowing it was hiding only drove me mad as I pictured it sitting menacingly in the shadows, crack and all.
So, next, I tried moving it to the front with the crack facing the back. I was the only one who knew it even existed, which I thought would help. Instead, I felt embarrassed every time someone would reach for it. Even when I was by myself, I would see it and cringe into myself as I remembered what was wrong with it.
What was I doing with a broken mug?
I couldn’t fix it, I couldn’t live with it, and I was alone in my torment.
Because no one else cares about a chipped mug. Some, like Emily, even find it charming or endearing.
In an attempt of pity, my boyfriend offered to use it. “Really, I don’t care.”
Again, with the not caring. I was sick and tired of people pretending they couldn’t see what was clearly there. What was clearly wrong. I was ashamed, and offered him any of my other mugs instead.
Sometimes I would grab the mug myself so no one else could notice its imperfection. But it only made my hidden frustration inside of me swell.
Now, it seems, most of the time my mug is hidden in my cabinet with the crack out of sight.
But the crack is still there. And even if I’ve so perfectly hidden it that no one else sees or knows of its existence, I know. And no amount of hiding or avoiding can help me to forget.
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