The Cult of the Mug by Riham Adly

She said to meet her in the local bar, not the office.
“Tamara.” She called out. I really didn’t like it when she used my name because, she too—my therapist—was a Tamara.
I wanted to order whiskey, but wasn’t sure I should drink at this time of the day.

“For five years, you’ve been coming to my office with nothing but stories about people after you.” Her eyes went to the pencil tucked behind my ear. Tough habit, I never do that at work, though.

“You have to listen to me and believe me. It’s what I pay you for.” I signaled to the barman and ordered beer. She didn’t have anything.

“Tamara, this just won’t work!”

Her out-burst was so out of character. She usually lets me do all the talking without interruption. I tried not to look at her lip line, at the fine fair hairs under her lower lip or the screaming-red lipstick.
“Remember what we said about letting the hurtful past surface so you can move on? Or else it would leak into your brain and life like the poisonous lead in the pencils you keep chewing? It’s never too late.”

I didn’t care about getting fixed. I wanted to tell the story of the cult of the mug and what they did to me. Here’s what happened.

I lost my favorite coffee mug, the one that had my name on it next to a pink unicorn---a pink Pegasus to be precise---and at work of all places. I get chronic migraines and anxiety attacks.  Coffee was my only cure, or at least had been.

I worked as a quantitative trading intern in Tower Research Capital. I liked their free housing, free lunch and breakfast benefits; they even offered free tickets to New York events. Didn’t cross my mind this was going to be another boring cubicle job.

I’d come in everyday at 9 a.m. sharp in my skinny jeans, and my low-neck blouses in aqua and marigold shades. I hated blazers with ugly name-tags. Kohl-rimmed eyes with my hair piled high gave a fresh look—sexy too. I’d like to think of myself as that pink unicorn Pegasus on the mug, as someone special born out of the dying belly of a monster. I liked my Pegasus pink to match the shade of my Maybelline lipstick. I could afford one now. Immigrant kids back in the day could never afford anything. They had to blend, speak the accent, and earn their keep.

I have style. I have flair, but I’m a private person. I go in straight to my cubicle, carry on with work, keeping out of everybody’s business, even during lunch break, unless we had to collaborate on a project.

I don’t know how I lost that mug. I kept it close. It went home with me home, EVERY DAY.
We had a mini kitchenette at the end of the hall, when I looked there; I caught Paul washing his mug.

“Hey Paul,” He barely looked up from the sink.  I caught my name and the pink unicorn on the mug he was washing. “Oh, so you found my mug.” We wedged in a smile in amongst each other, but his eyes were fixed on my low-neck blouse.
“May I?”  He looked surprised as I snatched my mug from his hands.

I’ve had a migraine all day; a caffeine fix would have definitely cured it. Vishen and Mark were both at the coffee machine. When I inched closer, I noticed that one of them, Mark, I think, was holding a very familiar looking mug, that pink thing near the handle? He shoved it right into the cupboard when I made direct eye-contact.

“Hey, you guys.” I tried to stay casual. Neither of them said a word, they looked like little girls caught putting on their mama’s lipstick.

On my way back, I caught Omar’s empty cubicle, number 23, his screen had a virus alert on. Where was he? Perhaps taking a leak? This was serious. I had to fix this, but what about my “keep to yourself” policy? The Virus alert blinked on and off seductively, like it was calling out for me. When I took over his seat, I noticed a white mug with my name on it next to a pink unicorn. I was still holding mine. His had the gloss of all things new.

Was this some sick joke?

“Tamara? What are you doing in my cubicle?” My hands shook real bad when I heard my name, almost knocking off his mug and mine.

“I think you forgot to zip your pants.” I had to improvise.
I weaseled my way out when he looked down at his crotch.

I just wanted to go back to the safety of my space, but then I noticed cubicle 10 had a mug just like mine and OMG, cubicle 6 and cubicle 8. They all had it!

All typing, clicking, and even the droning computer screens came to a hush. Everyone… gave this creepy stare, a “you’re in deep shit” kind of stare. That’s when I realized I was the only woman in the room. Boy, I wished I had my sneakers that day.
                                                                    
                                                                               *

“Tamara, why do you think your co-workers replicated your mug?”

My heart cartwheeled in my chest like a cheerleader on auto-repeat.

“ Is..n’t …Isn’t it obvious? They want to scare me into quitting.” I stammered as I watched her pull something out of her purse.

“Dig deeper Tamara.” She repeated our name again in that ice and cream voice, crossing one perfectly shaved leg over the other.  I shut my eyes real tight till it hurts. The deeper I dug the foggier it got. When I opened my eyes again, I watched Tamara’s manicured fingers gripping a mug with a pink Pegasus and the glittery letters of our name.

“Barrman, I want whiskey, pour in it this nice mug.”

Riham Adly’s fiction has appeared in journals such Bending Genres, Connotation Press, Spelk, The Cabinet of Heed, Vestal Review, Volney Road Review, Five:2:One, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Gingerbread House lit, Writing in a Woman’s voice, Anti-Heroine Chick, Danse Macabre and @Fewerthan500 among others. She was recently short-listed in the Arab-Lit Translation Prize.
Riham lives with her family in Gizah, Egypt.