Mug & Lamp
Mug spends most of her days bathed in lamp’s golden light. Lamp’s bulb casts mug’s shadow all across desk and sometimes against keys. It wasn’t always this way.
Mug sat on shelf in the white light of the cold store. There she watched men in glasses and women in hats peruse the shelves. There she saw Craig, was first held by Craig, was inspected all over by Craig. He looped a finger through her handle, cupped her bottom in his palm, lifted her up above him and swung her around. He even tossed her up and spun her there, and she heard him exhale a now familiar sound, a satisfied hum, before she was placed gently inside basket, swiped across belt, wrapped in paper and unfolded in living room.
Mug saw living room first - the cool light of day casting room in blue. Then boxes came, unfolded, spilled out, and spaces were made. Craig built desk with mug on floor, filled for a moment with heat from pot’s black coffee.
It was on desk that mug first realIzed a different warmth, not the inside feeling of being full and heated, or the texture-contact embrace of Craig’s hand, the wrinkled kiss of Craig’s lips, or being emptied and placed gently into sink. Here on desk mug was light and shade, white and grey, warm in her light.
On desk mug understands Craig as he breathes out his satisfied hum. Atop desk, basking in lamp’s light, out of cabinet, away from cups and plates, mug can sit quietly staring at the dancer under the lamp. She doesn’t know her name, has no way to ask it. Mug sits in her warm light and watches her sway in the still air of the room, the dancer’s grass skirt bristling against her legs, a smile frozen across her face while her hips pause in the dance, happy always under lamp, her eyes closed, thinking of a beach somewhere.