She says now that we live together, we have too many cups between the two of us and that we need to pare down. I say the Brady Bunch didn’t jettison their excess children when they joined up. She says it’s different because children are different from cups. I don’t know; I like my cups. A lot of the glasses are specific to traditional service of various beer styles, so I want them. Some of them are dumb. Like the printed pint glasses. But you always need pint glasses, is the point. She tells my mom what about the Kinky Boots souvenir cup from the theater. Mom guffaws or does something that might be in the guffawing category. I am judged. I shift in my shoes thinking they’re right. But I went to that show. It happened to me. And I paid like eighty-five dollars for a cocktail at intermission. Their faces say I’m a fool for nostalgia but that they love me anyway but also will ultimately coerce me into abandoning the cup. It is plastic, and I know that’s not right. But I like it.
This morning, when I woke up for work, I moved my pillow to find my phone and turn off my alarm so as not to disturb. My pillow brushed my favorite rocks glass off my nightstand onto the floor, where it shattered into many pieces. It had a blue old-fashioned bicycle on it. I don’t ride bikes, but I’ve made some good drinks in the glass, and it reminds me of cold, proper cocktails. Well, that’s one down, then. I really don’t mind it when my things are gone too much. I just like them while they’re still there or I think I do.