Let me explain: back during my university days, I had a group of friends that would dedicate one night a week to movie night. Everyone would make a dish and pile in over at whomever’s apartment was the most accommodating (re: clean) and with enough comfortable seating for everyone. Lucky for me, the cutie of the group had the apartment with the best seating.
So there I was, flirting with the cute chef in his kitchen while daydreaming about being that indulgent couple that hangs out in the kitchen. He offered me a drink while I imagined us feeding each other pastries, freshly baked from our oven. I’m thinking that I’ve hit the foodie jackpot.
Then he opens the cabinet that houses his cups. His grimy cups. Those scaly, scuffed-up, slice-your-mouth-open plastic cups.
You know the kind:
- Where you can tell, from the discoloration, someone was drinking red Kool-Aid at some point several uses ago.
- Where you can faintly smell the dishwater detergent crammed into those cracks and crevasses every time you take a sip.
- Where you can clearly see the scratchy and fuzzy reminders of months (years?!) of constant chewing around the lip.
Needless to say, I started bringing my own drinks after that.