Lost Coffee Cup

 

After Sara poured her morning coffee she absently set down her cup before going to the bathroom.  Upon leaving the bathroom she could not find it—even after three circuits of her morning movements from bed to kitchen to bathroom.   Had she placed it near the sink or on the dining room table or even on top of a bookcase, she would have found it eventually.

As it was, she assumed that she had placed it in some mundane location and that her inability to locate her coffee was due to her lack of coffee.  Caffeine was needed to bond her eye nerves to her seeing receptors.  Giving up, she poured a new cup.

The old cup never appeared.  Even after she looked for the cup fully awake and even after she looked for it in places it couldn’t have been, like the garage, she could not find it.  Eventually, she forgot the search itself.

The cup was no longer lost because it was no longer sought.

One would think such a mystery, having a limited search area and no logical explanation, would have held her attention longer.  For all she knew the laws of physics had temporarily changed in her kitchen, an inter-dimensional portal had opened in her hallway, or an alien had teleported itself into her dining room and stolen it.  Maybe the alien was a shape shifter still lying in wait.   At any moment a table leg could transform itself into a wall-sized Sara-eating mouth and eat her.

Her parents would look for her, searching even in places she never was, and eventually give up.

Found in It Happened Yestermorrow:  Stories Written Two Minutes Before Waking