Niki

The Marlboro thermos lay there in her box almost incongruous amongst the other faux -retro items- the oversize trucker hat, the Art Deco-inspired book ends from Muji. But the thermos logo was too innocent, too minimalist. It didn’t quite fit in with its more recently- birthed brethren. And while she was its rightful owner now, it seemed to balk at the new master. It knew it didn’t belong. A relic of consumer loyalty, this was something that gave a dependable impression of who someone really was. She, it protested, was not that someone.
###It harrumphed that no girl should ever own something of such a pragmatic, rusty hue. This was the thermos that held black coffee for people on early morning exploits; if she insisted on a thermos, hers ought to be slimmer and of a paler shade.

###It railed at her that the angular lines of white and red were really meant to echo the elegant swoops of all those cowboy hats slung low on sunburned faces, stony but reliable. The white crested triangle perfectly recalled the snowy peaks of the Budweiser logo- even if the brick red was now associated with the color of Andy Warhols's Campbell's can. It didn't care. It was sincere and she hadn't earned the privilege of putting whatever frivolous, diet-friendly, eastern-inspired libation she had in mind.

###She sat there drinking her coffee (yes, she conceded to the thermos, it was a latte) in the empty condominium she had shared caring for her late father. She did a last rummage through the things, and began to imagine the ache she would have for her father's voice on all the things she would ever put in boxes to come. As she nestled the thermos deeper amongst her own things, she silently promised she would never, ever put anything with Splenda into it.