The Cheater

by Ryan Forgosh

Illustration by Aubrey McConnell

Ithink my man is cheating on me. You can call me paranoid or whatever else you’d like, but I know I’m right. I mean, there’s just so much evidence. How could it not be true? My man’s been acting differently for a while now. He used to give me a kiss every single morning without fail. But now? He hasn’t touched me in weeks! He also started leaving the house earlier than usual. My man used to leave the house at 9:00 a.m. sharp for work, but now he leaves at 8:30 a.m.

For what reason? If you ask me, I bet he’s getting his morning fix now from someone else, meeting up with some floozie that everyone’s tasted. What, am I not good enough for him anymore? Sure, I’ve got a bit of a chip on me, but I always thought that added to my charm. Even if it doesn’t, is that enough to drive him to go somewhere else to add some flavoring to his morning?

It’s 8:45 a.m. right now. My man’s already left, and all I can do is sit here, my anger brewing, as I visualize giving him a red-eye. But then my hope is restored. I hear the creak of a door being opened, and I know my man’s returned. Maybe he’s realized his mistake and seen how neglected I’ve been!

“Damn it. I’m gonna be late,” I hear my man mumble. “Where the hell did I leave my files?”

I’m ready for him to greet me. To pick me up and bring me to his lips. But then he walks into view. He moves into the kitchen, and he’s not alone. I can’t believe what I’m looking at. He has the gall to bring her into the house. He’s not even trying to hide her from me. And with this, my suspicions have been confirmed. The woman whom my man’s hand is wrapped around is green as could be. Her head is adorned with a similarly green crown. And her smile is sickening. It’s like she knows what she’s doing to me and is reveling in it. Not to mention what she’s doing to my man. Every morning she steals his money just to give him something he could get for free from me. The siren has lured him into her trap, and he’s transfixed.

I’ve been there for him for as long as he can remember. His parents introduced us when he was just a kid, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. Or at least I thought we were. Whenever he was cramming for a test, I was there to help reinvigorate him. When he struggled to get out of bed, I was there to wake him up. We were a team. He’d press his lips to me and I’d fill him with warmth, the vanilla scent with which I’m so often adorned wrapping around him. But I guess I wasn’t enough. Now he’s after someone more robust. And he found that in a cardboard cutout with no personality to call her own. He places her on the counter next to me. Looking at her up close, our differences become apparent. She’s much taller than I am, and I’m a bit wider. She’s white with green highlights throughout, while I’m just plain white. Sure, I change color, which captivated my man when he was younger, but I guess the novelty of that has worn off.

She looks over at me with the green glare she wears. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn she winked at me.

“You’re just temporary,” I say to the cardboard my man’s brought into our home. “You’re just here so he can get his fix. But me? I’ve been with him since he was ten, and I’ll continue to be there for him, even if I’m not being used. Once you’re gone, I’ll still be here. And I always will be.”

“You keep telling yourself that, sweetie,” she responds with a posh accent. One that says, I’m better than you, and you know it. “In the end, he paid for something better than he could get at home. Honestly, you should be happy for him. Now he can actually enjoy his mornings. Oh, honey, you’re turning green! Are you perhaps trying to imitate me?”

I feel helpless. Here I am, collecting dust on the counter while this cardboard cutout will get to go with my man once he leaves for work. And tomorrow, another will take her place, and I’ll still be here. She’s right. Nothing that’s happened in the past matters if it doesn’t lead to a future where we’re together. The disposable cup’s man comes to the counter, and I feel like I shatter as he reaches past me to grab her. His hand grazes me as he does so. It’s the most contact we’ve had in a long while, and it’s just for him to grab someone else. But this graze is enough to send me reeling. I tilt over, my balance off, and tumble from the counter to the floor. And now, I truly shatter. My chip that I once found charming is now joined by a hundred other little cracks. A moment later, I’m in pieces. I’d have to be glued back together. But hey, maybe him repairing me will also repair our love! At the very least, he can’t ignore me now.

“Ah, crap. Now I’m gonna be late,” the disposable cup’s man says.

I watch helplessly as the man reaches for the dustpan. I’m swept up as grief sweeps over me. Time seems to slow as, instead of returning me to the counter, he walks me over to the trash can. I feel as if I’m shattering all over again when he tilts the dustpan down to discard its contents. To discard me. Now, over the trash, I can see what’s inside: several clones of the cup on the counter sit in the trash, their purposes served. And now, I join them. I guess I’m just as disposable as them. Just like that, I’m replaced. There’s a different one each morning, but they’re all the same. Used once and then discarded, all winding up in the same place as me. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised. My former owner is no different from everyone else who’s fallen victim to the siren’s song. After all, they can offer so much more than I ever could. The only flavor I’ve ever been is vanilla.