two of cups
From the short story collection "What's Left Over: Stories Inspired By Discarded Things"
Life was starting to feel like one endless party. A static-y, alcohol-soaked numbness hugged my brain as my reflection stared back at me. I didn’t want to be here, lit by this cold, dim light, wearing these annoyingly too-tight jeans that kept slipping down my hips while standing in whoever’s moldy bathroom this was. I looked into my own eyes, unsure who was behind them. I could hear Aiden and his friends’ bellowing over monotonous, pulsing music that had been muffled by the cheap door that separated me from the party. My mascara had begun to melt, leaving dark, hazy rings under my eyes. I was a mess. I was ready to go home. I didn’t want to feel like this anymore.
Nested cups holding an inch or so of warm, skunky beer tormented me from where I’d set them down on the sink. The host saw this lame party idea online that suggested using cups to signify relationship status. When I arrived, I’d chosen orange for “taken”, but then Aiden offered to get me a refill and it came back stacked—pink over orange. As he handed it to me he gave me a quick peck on the cheek then disappeared. It took Kira pointing it out for me to even notice the change.
“Aiden gave that to you?” she asked incredulously, pointing at the cups in my hand.
I stared at them, dumbfounded. Pink meant “single”. I chuckled reflexively. Was Aiden trying to break up with me via Solo cups?
Whatever the answer, I hated this feeling, like I never knew what was going on, always wondering whether he wanted to be with me or not. After making a circuit around the party trying to locate him, I ducked into the bathroom so I could think for a minute without all those bloodshot eyes and sweaty bodies creeping all over me. But the bathroom brought no clarity. Being alone with myself—staring at my pale, scowling face in that unforgiving mirror—only magnified my flaws and weaknesses, things that Aiden was always pointing out to me.
“Couples are supposed to help one another be better people,” he’d claim, after picking me apart over whatever I had just done that annoyed him. Taking him at his word, I tried to reciprocate a few times, but that usually just caused him to turn whatever I was complaining about back on me, making it my problem again. Sometimes, way in the deep recesses of my mind, I wondered if maybe he was full of shit.
Someone began pounding their fist on the door, causing me to practically leap out of my skin. I had been in there awhile.
“Nat!” they called. It was Aiden. “I know you’re in there! Open up!”
I closed my eyes and took in a deep drag of air. Don’t take it this time. Don’t give in.
Before he could start pounding again I whipped open the door. There he was—all smiles, dark eyes and mussed hair. My resolve suddenly turned from Give him hell to Maybe I am overthinking? Maybe it was a misunderstanding after all?
I forced myself to muster up a shed of self-preservation. “What? What’s happening?”
“Why are you hiding?” he asked innocently.
“I’m not hiding. It’s a bathroom. I was looking for you earlier. Where did you go?”
His brows creased with confusion, an emotion I didn’t quite buy. “What do you mean? I’ve been right here.” He gestured broadly, then asked in a patronizing voice, “Are you having one of your anxiety things again?”
He was convinced that any time I was unhappy it was because I overthink things. I’d thought about going to therapy for it, but Aiden convinced me that therapists only made things worse.
“No,” I insisted. I always got defiant when he used that voice on me. “Why did you bring me this?”
I reached behind me and thrust the cups in his direction. He stared blankly a moment then shook his head in mock confusion. I could see hints of the smile he was trying to stifle peeking through.
“What you mean?” he asked, his eyes comically wide. “Are you messing with me?”
He was doing it again, whatever this was. It would be my fault by the end. I felt my throat tighten, a harbinger of the tears that always accompanied frustration. I was not going to cry here. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
I pushed past as he tried to stop me, slipping away into the crowd. Aiden continued to call my name, intent on making a scene, but I thrust myself through the tight wad of bodies and escaped out into the night.
The air was warm and damp. Crickets performed their rhythmic symphony along to the bass lines of cheesy pop remixes. I waited a moment for him to come out and confront me, to insist on calling me an Uber. But I remained alone on the sidewalk, two cups in my hand, streetlights going watery through brimming tears.
I looked down at pink over orange. In a way it was perfect—exactly how I felt, but not what I longed for. I tipped the cups over, pouring out the last of their contents and dropping them on the ground. The crunch of plastic under my foot felt satisfying. My tears began to subside.
I took one last look back at the house. The door remained still. There was a time when that would break me, but tonight it didn’t matter. It was time to go. Time to walk away. I wouldn’t be coming back here again.