I just like to drink my coffee from it

She looks up from her coffee cup on the table. She traces her finger around the image of a perplexed-looking cat wearing heels displayed on the side. My kind of morning, the caption reads.

Whoever made that mug is sick, I say. I wish you wouldn't use it all the time. Cats should be cats, without the addition of obscene female attire. Is it supposed to be making a statement? Is it supposed to be ironic? I just don't get it...
I'm standing behind the kitchen chair, my fingers not tracing anything.

Well, She replies; I just like to drink my coffee from it, in the morning. And I guess if it reminds me of anything, it makes me think that somewhere out there, there is a person who is measuring their success cheap cat cup by cheap cat cup. They wake up in the morning, turn off their alarm while the city sunlight leaks through the blinds, and catch the met to their corner office. They set aside the big, empty What If questions for eight hours a day and create something, anything...
And I can look up to that. Its like people who design christmas sweaters. At least when they begin measuring the accomplishments of their lives they can hold on to something tangible. Jingle bells and all.

I grabbed my jacket and she grabbed her keys. Another day, I think as I strap my computer over my shoulder. She walks out first and I close the door behind us. As I pull the door towards me, I notice the coffee mug she has left sitting on the table. The city sunlight pools on the table, illuminating the face of the cat in heels. My kind of morning, the caption reads.