Chris opens the balcony doors to let the mid-morning air circulate throughout the apartment. At 10:30 AM, the city is already in its third lull in activity. Traffic has died down a bit on Lakeshore Drive, and the city sounds are less intense. Car alarms dwindle, wandering drunks have taken back to the more traveled areas, and most of the neighborhood had taken off for work a few hours earlier. Stepping briefly onto the shallow balcony, Chris inhales the air tinged with a fresh hint of morning breeze off the lake. Underneath him, young mothers, nannies and small children inch along the lakefront path amidst bikers and rollerbladers, taking in the summer day. Standing frozen, Chris greets the day in silence, as he does each morning.
With a deliberate breath, he backs back into the living room, selects an old Mazzy Star album, sets it on the turntable, blows on the needle to shoo any renegade dust, and carefully places the needle into the vinyl groove. As Hope’s plaintive voice slowly fills the room, Chris moves with it, eyes closed, steps sauntering to the kitchen for the next element in his ritual: coffee.
With languid lethargy, Chris reaches to the back of the cupboard for a mug, averting his eyes from the guilty overflowing pile of dishes that wait in mockery, threatening to dampen his morning mood. Perhaps today will be a cleaning day, he gulps. The cupboard is empty. He glances to the sink. Somewhere, he pleads, there must be a mug! No way would he stoop to use a bowl. This is a serious morning, too beautiful for imperfection. Hope’s voice is too intoxicating, the air is too sweet. He needs a mug-a real mug.
His quick surge of panic serves him well. He recalls a box in the back closet never fully unpacked from him last move. Chris is pretty sure it is kitchen shit. He runs to rummage. Sure enough, there it sits, untouched, pristine, a beacon labeled, “Random kitchen utensils-don’t do the dishes yet.”
“At least I’ve got my own back,” he thinks.
“Strange you never knew,” Hope drones.
Chris rips open the box and reaches inside. Potato masher-no. Plate-no. Blender bottom… This is not looking good. Wait… Here it is. It feels like a mug. It has a handle, yes! Dishes averted! Chris pulls it out in triumph, and lovingly admires this promise wrapped in tissue paper. Ah, yes, the saving grace of this mug. This chipped, ugly, chintzy mug that reads, “Eat in the BUFF.”
Chris stops. Hopes voice silences. The album is finished.
Grinning, Chris holds the mug up to the light. For five years, this had been the morning mug. How perfect that it was found today, of all days. He remembers Sandy. She used to relentlessly tease his silly loyalty as a testament to a trip they had taken in the early stages of their ill-fated relationship. Chris thought it was funny, “Eat in the BUFF.” Sandy would insist that they remove their clothes for morning coffee. She had been playing along, appeasing his awkward fascination with silly puns. Looking back, that had been the element of their personalities that worked so well. That’s how they had fit well together.
“If you’re going to drink from it,” she’d say, “you’ve got to follow directions!”
Chris smiles at the reflection.
Sandy has been long since gone, having run off with Solidarity during an experimental phase. Weren’t those her words?
Solidarity.
Fucking hippies-always giving themselves bullshit self-righteous names in order to commandeer some sort of mystical excuse for a mindfuck. Solidarity played a djembe in front of the Art Institute, and he’d use his pounding as a soundtrack for bad spoken word poetry. Although it had been impressive how he had managed to drum, speak, and chain-smoke clove cigarettes, Chris had never considered him as any sort of competition. In fact, he had initially though that Sandy’s appreciation of Solidarity’s “work” was a sweet connection to the city. It seemed romantic. They were both so young, and he can now recognize his naiveté. Solidarity’s real name was Frances Neel. Sandy was smitten. Frances, ahem, Solidarity, offered the hook, and Sandy bit, breaking Chris’ confidence. What could have grown was cut short. It happens. Chris continued to drink daily from that mug for at least three years after the fact. It wasn’t about Sandy after that. A few joined him every so often in his morning routine, but none so consistently to recognize the religion in that ceramic monstrosity.
After the move, Chris had gone crazy, thinking he had left it behind. Here it is. Chris giggles, removes his clothing and returns to the turntable to reset Hope and her longing drone.
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