The Mug - Part 3
This is part 3 of a serialised short story featuring Mick Smith and his wife Sandy and Mick's old tea mug that causes an argument. Part 1 is here Part 2 is here.
Mick drove a counterbalance forklift truck for a living. Off-loading huge, long lorries that pulled into the Distribution Centre. The job kept his mind away from Sandy, mugs or anything else. Until break time.
He sat at a table with a little posse of people from the Goods In crew.
—Ey up, Mick. Are ya impersonating a horse?
—Eh?
—Why the long face!
Laughter all around the table. Jim Flynn grinned at him.
—Bloody ‘eck, mate. Yer’ve got a face like a fucking wet weekend.
—Aye, I know. Sorry. Bit pissed off today, is all.
—Cheer up, Mick. It might never ‘appen, said Kelly, another one of the crew.
He smiled. But he knew it looked like a lame attempt.
—Look at it this way, we are a quarter of the way through the shift, said Jim.
—Bloody hell! Thanks, Jim! Kelly laughed and Mick managed a better grin.
—Oi! Grumpy arse? What’s up with yer? ‘Ave yer pissed Sandy off again?
Kelly grinned at him.
—Er, yeah. I think so.
—Well, buy her something nice. And say yer sorry. That’ll sort it.
—Would that work fer you, would it Kelly?
Jim looked all earnest.
—Yeah, usually does.
—Right, if I get yer another mug of tea, will yer take me back?
They all laughed and Kelly punched his arm.
—Fuck off, you. When they were handing out looks, you thought they said trucks, and got a big ugly one.
Jim clutched his chest and pulled a face like he’d been shot.
—Ouch! Arghh! I’m wounded.
—Serves yer right, don’t mess with Kelly.
Mick grinned at the pair of them. He started to feel a bit better. He checked inside his backpack. The mug touched his fingers. He nodded. All good.
—Serious though, Mick. Do summat to make her feel good. That’ll sort it.
—I will, thanks, Kelly.
He started to think about what he could do. Because throwing his mug out? Not an option.
A day later, Mick on the way home, worrying. On the bus with his mate Bob. His mug was safe in his backpack. It went with him everywhere.
—Shit day, said Bob.
—Yeah. Could be an interesting evening.
—Why?
—Sandy. She’s got one on her, still.
—Oh? What have you done?
—That’s the thing, She won’t say. Keeps saying it’s just me mug.
—Wha?
—Yeah.
—Your mug? What’s wrong with it?
Mick dug it out of his backpack.
—Look! Nothing wrong with that, right?
—Bit stained. But looks good to me.
—Exactly. So, it ain’t the mug. I dunno what else I’ve done.
—Women, mate. Always a bloody mystery. See ya tomorrow.
Bob got off and Mick’s was the next stop. He hoped Sandy was in a good mood. That bloody Diane better not have wound her up all day.
He got off the bus. Walked along the road to their little house. Let himself in.
—Alright, love?
—Yeah. I got a chippy tea. Yours are in the kitchen
—Ooh, bloody nice one!
He walked into the kitchen. No chips. She followed him in. Leaned against the doorframe. Arms folded.
—What the—?
—Hand the bugger over, you git! I can’t believe you took it to work.
—My mug?
—Yes, your bloody mug! You’ve been hiding it for days.
—No way. This is getting bloody daft!
—Right.
She marched over to the mug cupboard. Opened it up. Took out his mug. Except it was pristine. She waved it at him. He stared.
—How the fuck?
—See? Your mug was so damn nuclear it multiplied. But at least this one is clean. I reckon the old one is a fucking science experiment.
He dug his actual mug out of his backpack. Watched Sandy place the imposter on the kitchen counter. Except it wasn’t an imposter. It was a perfect match. Minus the stains.
—Did you…
—Yes, you big muppet! I found a place that would make you a new one.
—Blimey, Sandy. I dunno what to—
—Just give me that old health hazard.
She held her hand out. Mick handed it over.
—Promise me one thing.
—What?
—You make Diane drink out of it at least twice.
They both laughed. Mick gave her a hug. She hugged him back. He put the kettle on.
—Tea, love?
—Yes please, milk, no sugar and get a bloody move on, I’m gagging. And keep that new mug clean.