Saturday, 23 August 2008

"The Mug" by Leslie Smith

Lovers in older days would take a lock of hair. You, however, seem to have treasured a mug I borrowed one afternoon. I had thought it only laziness that moved the mug to your windowsill, only coincidence that it was next to other precious objects of yours. Why is it still beside that snapshot of your old friends, that ancient dictionary your late father gave you, that empty champagne bottle from your 18th? I doubt the mug is as worthy as those. And yet a week, two weeks later, there it sits.

My mouth left a gossamer-thin ring of claret on the lip of the mug, inside to outside. That's still there. Do you look at it and wonder when I’ll be round next? Do you look at it and wish my lips had met yours instead of the mug, inside to outside?

I’ll tell you a secret: yesterday when you were out of the room, I reapplied my claret lipgloss and kissed the lip of the mug again, refreshing the colour. Why not do it? Why not make your day? Your week? Why not make you smile?

And after that, maybe, just maybe, why not say I love you?

Leslie Smith is an undergraduate at Bath Spa and took Sudden Prose in Spring 2008.