I broke my favorite coffee cup on Monday morning. My mom gave that mug to me when I was still living in the rust belt; she mailed it tucked in a used, brown cardboard container stuffed with peanuts and swaddled in bubble wrap, like a little baby jesus in a box. It was made in Key West by a local artisan who, apparently, specialized in ergonomically designed, kitchy mugs with amusing schematics of the "caffeine curve" painted onto the front, immortalized under a hard, glossy shine.
I was reaching up into the cabinet at o'dark early and as I pulled a different mug towards me, the handle of the dearly departed caught and was pulled out along with the Starbucks mug, causing it to topple from it's perch 3 feet above my countertop and falling, strangely enough, directly on top of water glass which shattered into a million pieces along with my Key West mug. I just stood there for a minute, in a stupor, partially hoping that I could somehow avoid having to deal with any of it. So I cleaned up all of the largest pieces and anything else that I could see, everything else has since been swept up or lodged into various feet.
