cup

I stared at the old plastic cup on my table. It stared back at me. Neither of us had a smidge of emotion. Both just existing on this day. When the cup was placed on the table, it was full. Now, it was empty. Been that way for a while now. The contents evaporated into the air. A little more each day. Nothing I ever noticed, until half of it was gone – a little bit of mold swimming in the liquid. A bit later, there was nothing. Exactly the way she made me feel the day she left that cup sitting there. Why she even bothered to make herself a drink, plop it down on the table and then proceed to end my life, I don’t even bother trying to comprehend. But that cup, a 1999 Orpheus parade one gleaned from a Mardi Gras a long time before that day, has become a companion. Not a friend, for sure. Because a friend wouldn’t constantly remind you of the shittiest day of your life. Or would they? I don’t know. I sometimes doubt whether I have any friends. I have people that I know. But do they know me? I tend to be a bit guarded. The only ones who get in are the ones I fuck. Literally. And I guess figuratively, if you ask them. That’s my fault, I assume. I’ve tried to open up. Usually on a barstool. Usually drunk. Usually when I needed something from someone. A leech gets better results because they just suck. The cup, it doesn’t offer anything. It could be cleaned out, put back on a shelf. Then it would just become part of the rotation again. A reminder that just pops up every so often. Or, the cup could be tossed into the trash. Gone forever. Except when thoughts veered back in that direction, which, knowing me, they always would find a way to veer. That’s not really an option, however. I know that. The cup is old. It holds other memories too. It’s been a good cup. Never cracking, or letting much of the paint peel. It’s not its fault that she picked it up that day. The cup was one of her favorites. Even though it came from New Orleans. The town she told me she’d never visit. “Because of her,” she always said. I never shied away from her past. I met her ex. He was a weak person. Still living on his parent’s farm in up-state New York. I could tell he was still in love with her. She’d told me as much before we were dating. Not so much anymore when we were. I wasn’t jealous. Why? Because I trust. Cheating is the one thing a person should never do. I think I’ve lived up to that belief, although some would say I haven’t. It’s understandable. The duality of the cup is part of my attachment to it. It came from one, but is now labeled forever as the other. Now, years later, they both are part of my life still. One from afar, one just in my mind. I sit here and stare at that cup. Seems like such a waste of time. Seems? Then it dawns on me, there used to be a bunch of those cups. She must have kept all the others. Five years ago, the choice was made to keep them. And my Andy Kaufman books. A couple of hats and my fishing poles. “I’ll mail you those if I find them,” she said about the fishing poles. They were purchased in New Orleans. In 1995. On a one-off fishing trip with another ghost of my past. We didn’t catch a fish that day. But we smiled a lot. I can’t remember if I’ve smiled that much in a long time. But I kept those poles. A distant memory attached. Eventually, they were claimed by someone else. I hope they’ve been used again. By someone who picked them up at a Goodwill in Florida, most likely. And that the smiles they held passed from them into the new owner. Even if they didn’t catch a fish. It’s more about the company, anyway. Not the torturing of another creature. Or maybe we’re all put here to torture. A fish. A dog. Another person. A country. Shit. Who am I kidding? It’s about torturing yourself. The cup stares at me. I stare back at the cup. If I can get up, I’ll toss it in the trash.