She Said

This work is an illustration of the importance of simplicity and play.

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She said, “I believe I have lost my cup.”

I believed her. I remembered that cup. It was white, ceramic, round and it had a handle. It was glorious. Not the cup so much as the contents. It was filled with too much sugar, too much cream and too little coffee. It was dark French roast. Just the way she liked it. I knew she didn't really want a response or assistance. She simply spoke her dilemma out loud. I also knew that her wants changed, grew and evolved. It was decided. She would receive a response and possibly assistance. It was that important.

I replied, “Oh yes, I remember it well. The unsolvable case of the disappeared chalice of love, justice or something like that. It was a Tuesday in September. Nineteen seventy-two? I think? It might have been around the thirteenth of the month. Maybe, it was twenty twenty-four? Or two thousand-six? What a bleak bright sadly cheery day it was. Burned into my memory. It may have been raining on that sunny day. Who could tell about that sort of thing? Yes, that was the day, the case and the mystery.” I went on for a while.

She looked to me like I was a newly discovered animal. One never seen by man or woman before. A beast so frightenedly beautiful or plainly frightening that future action couldn’t be decided.

Her decisive inactions spurred me on. I said, “Yes, it was a thing of beauty. Ah, pale nut-brown liquid splendor onto itself. The contents, not the cup.” I glanced at her knowingly before I continued, “A loss of such magnitude cannot be allowed. I shall seek justice. Maybe? I’m a little tired. Later, yeah, later. I will seek cup justice. Light might be better then? Anyway, this travesty will not be left.... Ooh, cake.”

She said, “Cinnamon carrot. You’re being silly.”

I retrieved the cup she left behind the microwave and handed it to her. Already having the answer, I asked, “Baked with love.” It was not a question.

She nodded and said, “Thank you, I like silly.” She smiled. But who wouldn’t once they had the dark French roast of cup justice and a slice of the Cinnamon carrot cake of love.

By Michael Fairchild

From: United States

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