There hasn’t been enough fiction on here lately.
The coffee mug attacked me, so I ran away screaming. Coffee mugs get grouchy with age, but the screaming mortifies them. Once it had settled down I approached, quietly, not trying to sneak, but avoiding sudden movements.
It was a plaid coffee mug, green, brown and white, like how you think of a smart old uncle with a scratchy white beard. I said, “Look, I know you don’t want plain water in you, but I’ve already drunk my morning coffee. If I don’t use you, I’ll have to use a glass, and you know how finicky they are about being cleaned.” Wereas coffee mugs were distrustful of daily washings, believing it damaged the microbiome, and valuing patinas.
The mug didn’t have any liquid to burble with, so I held it to my ear like a seashell, saying, “You and me, mug, you and me against the world. We don’t need those cups and glasses.”
It whistled and werbled, pitieosly, and sighed when I held it to my cheek, relaxed finally its handle when I kissed it on the rim. I took it to the sink, whispering sweet nothings, stroking its bottom, and held it under the faucet. It braced itself, and I turned the faucet on.
For two moments it withstood, pretending it was just being rinsed, but at last the water was too much for it. The mug convulsed and went for my elbow, leaving a bruise.
I leapt back from the sink, the pain traveling up my funny bone, and held the mug before my face, staring it in the whorls. “Most unsatisfactory, coffee mug!” I yelled, and cast it on the kitchen tile, where it shattered into a thousand water soaked ceramic shards.
I did not even get out the broom, which had been rude lately, but left directly for the store, to buy a mug that would behave.