For the Love of a Cup

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the sharp scent of antiseptic clung to my scrubs. My feet ached from hours of standing, and the clean room's filtered air still lingered in my nose. Orders had come in nonstop all evening. I was sick of seeing labels, syringes, IV bags, and powders. Finally, I managed to sneak out.

My throat burned with thirst as I headed toward the hospital cafeteria. Once again, I had forgotten my water bottle at home. I wasn’t planning to buy anything. I just needed a cup. I’d grabbed one from the cafeteria a hundred times before, and no one had ever said a word. 

People in blue scrubs passed me in the hallway. The sharp scent of antiseptic stung my nose. In the distance, I saw the oddly familiar chairs and tables. Almost there. I glanced at the staff waiting behind the counter to hand out food and headed for the cups. The clear plastic cups were, as always, stacked on top of each other, forming a total of six neat towers. I grabbed the first cup from the closest pile and started toward the exit.

Suddenly, I heard a voice. “Ma'am, that's twenty-five cents.” I turned, startled. “For this?” I held up the empty cup. “It’s just a cup.” “Yes,” the cashier said firmly. I blinked, confused. “I grab one every day. I just need water. I work upstairs.” “Still twenty-five cents,” she said. I sighed and reached for my phone. “Don’t you have a coin?” “No, just card,” I muttered, as the terminal beeped.

I looked down at the cup in my hand. I’d paid for it. It was mine now. Officially. The most expensive cup of my life. And somehow, I felt responsible for it. I knew I had to take good care of it.

I blink, and I’m back in the present, sitting in my car, staring at the empty cup holder. This happened almost a year ago. Since then, I have brought that cup everywhere. I chuckle at the words my cup. I was being ridiculous again.

At first, I only took it to and from the hospital. I didn’t want to pay for another one. Sometimes I washed it by hand in the sink at home. I remember telling my coworkers about the injustice of it all. They agreed, it was absurd. Who can afford to pay twenty-five cents for a flimsy, empty plastic cup?

Over time, I started bringing it to other places too. I had it with me when I visited my husband in the ER after his accident. I held it during early morning walks with our dog. I took a sip from it while strolling through the park with my daughter. I even brought it to a girls’ night out.

Before I realized it, the cup had become part of my life. It went everywhere with me. Sometimes, when I was alone, I even talked to it. I almost got caught once, but that didn’t stop me. It felt like it truly understood me. It always listened.

It was there when I needed it. Patient, like a true friend. It never rushed me. Never judged. It always had time for me in its schedule. And sometimes, I could almost feel it smile at my awful jokes. I didn’t care that it was weird or ridiculous. I wasn’t bothered by the judgment from family or friends. I kept telling myself, They just don’t get it. But clearly, I had gotten too close to it. I mean, who mourns a cup months after it broke?

I can feel a tear forming in my left eye. I should stop thinking about this. I check the car display. It’s 7:30 already, and I’m still parked in front of the house, waiting for my daughter. I can already see the unexcused tardy email in my inbox.

At first, I didn’t want to believe it.. When I saw the small rip, I thought the world was ending. I had to pinch myself to make sure I was seeing it right. I was so shocked, I stopped. I couldn’t even cry at first. That night, I ate a whole pint of vanilla ice cream, followed by binge-watching my favorite show on the couch. I fell asleep there, wine glass in my hand.

It wasn’t until the next day, when I came to my senses, that the idea dawned on me: I had to hold a funeral for my cup. How could I not? It had been my friend and loyal companion for months. Three days later, I stood in the living room with my family, a few friends, and some coworkers. We were gathered around the fireplace, which I’d carefully decorated with flowers and photos of my cup. I even had a few selfies with it.

I knew most people were either there to humor me or for the food, but I didn’t care. This was about my cup.

I gave a speech, sharing memories, the fun times we’d had. I handed out song lyrics and played the songs we used to listen to together. We spent the next half hour singing. Then I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Tears streamed down my cheeks. My husband stroked my back while my daughter ran to get tissues.

There are still pictures of the cup around the house.

I hear the car door open, and see my daughter get in, bag slung over one shoulder, coffee in the other hand. She slides into her seat and takes a sip before placing the coffee in the empty cup holder.

I can feel tears swelling up in my eyes. That was my cup’s cup holder. How dare she place her coffee cup there? I swallow down the tears and switch the car into drive.

It was just a cup. I should stop. But the tears come anyway.