She told her story over a warm cup of coffee. It was a cold and mundane midday afternoon, and more often than not, you’d find her here on days like this lamenting on things. Many, many things.

“There were so many things going wrong. I couldn’t hold a relationship if it was glued to my fucking fingers. Every job I went to basically made me wish I never grew up. I finally tracked down someone who was part of my real family that left me to rot and die in that dumpster all those years back. Icing on the cake? He tried to fucking rape me.”

She sat back and sighed.

“So you can imagine all the cookies that were subtracted from my happy jar, and added to the ‘my-life-is-fuck-all’ jar.”

She paused.

“Wonder why I used cookies as my analogy. Probably because I want one. How typical right?”

She reached over the table and picked up a chocolate-chip bite of sin, continuing her story in between mouthfuls.

“It wasn’t easy to take the train out of here, you know? But my mind was made up. So I started stocking up on antihistamines, sharpening my razors, looking for stray ropes. The whole nine yards. I even planned it all, right? Wrote my last letter, which was to myself, and that’s damn lame. I even had my final shower, fed the cat, and called my boss to resign. Then I walked to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.”

While lighting a cigarette, she stirred her coffee, watching the plastic device break the clumps of creamer.

“I guess in my screwed-up head, I wanted some form of comfort, and in some weird way, prolong my death. I started drinking, taking sips after every heartbeat. Then I realised I was using one of those Stanley Thermos Cups. Let me tell you the one thing about Stanley Thermos Cups. It was going to keep my coffee warm even after I was gone. Then I realised that I won’t be around to taste that rich coffee that only I had the skills to make.”

She took a final drag, her story ending in a soft wisp of smoke, slowly escaping her pouted lips.

“I stayed. And here I am. Now, it’s your turn. What are you doing here?”

She reached out for his hand and he turned away. But that’s a story for another day.

Stanley Thermos Cups. Keeps your favourite drink warm.

See. I can spin a whole yarn to sell something as irrelevant as a Stanley Thermos Cup. Now, would someone PLEASE offer me a freelance writing job already?