A lobe story

He remembered the first time he saw her. It was a foggy morning, when he looked at himself at the mirror he spotted her. She held at the same level than him. She stood close, very close, but he couldn’t walk and meet her.

How could left be infatuated with right? he thought. That’s how it started—endless love. Some days he wondered if she loved him back and, if she did, would she love him when he was old, hairy, and waxy? He knew he would. Eternal lobe love.

People said there’s a pipe connecting the left ear lobe with its right counterpart. But that’s a big lie, all ears knew the kingdom ended shortly after they became internal. Just to think of that would make him cry. The left ear lobe looked forward for the morning, the only time he could see her and say hi. But, oh irony, she wouldn’t listen because ears can’t really talk.

One morning he saw her wink at him; somehow she managed to wrinkle itself a little bit—an imperceptible movement. Warmth covered him. He tried to run, but ear lobes don’t run, they stay put and listen to undecipherable words only brains understand.

That’s how it was, that’s how it has always been, and that’s how it would be for the rest of their lives. Unrealized love, platonic love, lobe love.

Cold Coffee

Several hours passed by and the coffee cup sat on top of the desk unnoticed. Somehow, somebody prepare it and spent some serious time to make it perfect: Irish cream, sugar substitute, and a tiny little lemon twist—just to give a hint of sourness.

The night arrived and the once burning hot liquid stood there; the desk vibrated with the passing cars outside creating minuscule brown waves. It trembled as the cleaning crew entered the building, steps approached the office; they sounded like chains being dragged. The cup sweated tiny coffee drops anticipating the moment, the dreaded moment, the time to be thrown to the trash and become recyclable. But the cup knew better; she knew recycling meant torture, sometimes in the form of burning, some others pressed until it ran out of breath.

With a big slam, the door opened and a giant human appeared—the frightening cleaning crew. The darkness made difficult to visualize this person. Sounds of crushing things resonated. Then, the human picked up the trash can several feet high. A hand grabbed all sorts of things from the floor. But the coffee stayed put, it show honor and courage—that’s how it was.

Before the cup could spill a drop of coffee, the huge hand picked it up. Evil eyes examined the recipient and then the weirdest thing happened: the human poured the contents into his mouth. “Yuck,” he said and spitted. The coffee swung inside, a micro-sea in a cup. He walked while the liquid went one way, then the other. The voyage ended at the kitchen where the human eyed the cup, opened a door, and put the mug inside this prison. Shivering, it looked outside through the window. The human pressed a button and a loud hum started, the floor moved in circles; a warm feeling surrounded it. This lasted a minute or less, but it felt like an eternity.

The door opened and the hand grabbed the cup. A mouth appeared and took a sip of the coffee. “Ahh,” the human said, “that’s more like it.” With three big gulps, the rest of the hot coffee disappeared in the mouth. And the cup, oh boy, the cup stayed there, empty. Fearing the worst, it trembled. The hand approached it and, with a single movement, crushed the carton until it got reduced to a ball.

Finally, the carton ball flew in the air and landed in the trash to be recycled the next day, to be burned or crushed to the max. Would it be a cup again?