The Red Mug

 

There was a small boutique along Main Street that sold more than clothing.  There were heavy-handed cheeses for foreign sounding crackers, laminated olives designed to adorn holiday martini glasses, and various kitchen accoutrements that were far beyond my understanding.

Once a year the shop ran a sale, but never inside.  They would set up tables in the back alley and have everything displayed with reduced price tags.  The sale was never advertised beyond word-of-mouth.  Everyone seemed to know when the sale would be and the alley was always packed, no matter the weather.

It was on one of those tables that I spotted the red coffee mug.  It seemed an orphan, and yet somehow more magical than sad.  The moment I spotted it I knew it was to be mine.  I carried it gently to the lady standing next to her cash box.  She wrapped it in tissue and then set it into a bag. 

Over the years I have discovered my morning coffee generates more of a van Gogh feeling than an office cubicle feeling.   I was correct when I had sensed a magical aura around the red mug.