I’ve shared my life, bed, air, and space with my husband for forty-one years. We have a joint bank account, a sofa that we both sit on, and I’ve even been known to let him sample food from my plate when we go out to eat.

I thought I was used to being half of a whole. But that was until this morning.

There John was, standing at the sink, gazing out the window. His casual stance was familiar; I had seen this image of him thousands of mornings. It’s a scene I scarcely notice anymore.

But then I saw his right hand curled around the handle of MY coffee cup.

I watched him raise MY coffee cup to his stubbled face and tip it toward his pursed lips. His gullet bobbed as he swallowed coffee, and he closed his eyes for a second to savor the flavor.

Then, as if clueless to his crime, he turned my way and smiled.

We have many coffee cups. They’re all capable of holding liquids. All have a handle with a hole for digits, and they are various sizes and colors. Some have words on them: “World’s Best Grandpa.” “Coffee Lover.” Even the dreaded: “Live. Love. Laugh.”

To me, a coffee cup is a personal thing, like a toothbrush or underwear. And I thought this was something John understood. But now that I look back, maybe he’s forgotten.

For years, John always used the same coffee cup. It’s a black, unassuming campaign cup from a long-ago local election in our old neighborhood. He seemed to have grown attached to it, and the coffee stains within showed its age.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I noticed a different cup in the sink. Had he used the green cup with the big “L” on it instead? It wasn’t a problem if he had, even though I’d bought it at Christmas as a backup to MY favorite cup. If he wanted it, he could have it.

So, John has two cups to call his own. The black Sheriff cup and the green “L” cup. One mouth, two cups. He was cup-rich.

Now, I claim only one cup in the entirety of our house. I don’t know why, but this cup just feels right to me when I drink from it, and it makes me happy with each sip of liquid caffeine.

The outside of MY cup is decorated with delicate flowers and a sketch of the chubby Buddha. It is pleasingly round and flares a bit at the top. I love the thin rim and feel fancy when I lift its delicate weight.

The best part about MY coffee cup is the surprise inside. At the bottom, in delicate script, I’m treated to an uplifting quote as a reward for finishing my drink:

“What you think, you become.”

I look forward to reading that, and each time I do, I think of a skinnier, younger me. It hasn’t worked yet, but I still enjoy the sentiment.

So. You can imagine my absolute rage at seeing MY coffee cup in HIS gnarly hand this morning. In seconds, my eyes scrunched in bitterness, and my normally-kind thoughts turned to homicide.

John noticed the crackling tension in the air.

“What?”

I forced my mouth to form words.

“MY coffee cup. Put it down.”

He looked from me to MY cup and back to me, and he knew what to do.

John took his old black campaign cup from the cabinet and poured the rest of his offending coffee into it.

Time for coffee. Just had to fill MY coffee cup, and we could share the morning.

Contact Robin at robinwrites@yahoo.com