My Coffee Mug Was Ahead of Me

I live alone, which matters for this story, because there is no one to blame and no one to back me up.

It was a Sunday morning in February. I took my blue mug from the desk in the study — I had been using it as a pen holder for a week, so it was full of pens. I dumped the pens into a drawer, carried the mug in my right hand toward the kitchen, and stopped halfway down the hall because the doorbell camera pinged. False alarm, a cat. Twenty seconds, no more.

When I got to the kitchen the mug was already there. Sitting on the counter next to the stove, handle turned left the way I always leave it. My right hand was empty. I want to be precise about the feeling: it was not surprise at first, it was a kind of wrongness in my hand, like a missed stair. I could still feel the ceramic weight that was no longer there.