I have a cup. Jeromy has a cup.
Jeromy’s cup is green and has footballs on it. It’s large and manly, with a big girth but not so tall. He rarely drinks out of it.
My cup is tall. It’s red, white, and blue and matches the nauseating patriotic scheme of the front entryway to our house. I drink out of it every morning.
I didn’t have a cup until last month when Jeromy came home from work one day and caught me drinking out of his cup.
“Why are you drinking out of my cup?” he asked.
“Because, one, you never use it, and two, I don’t have a cup,” I said from behind the steam of my pomegranate green tea.
He left, and two hours later, my new ceramic stars and stripes model showed up.
Do I like it? Not really.