Red. Who do I know that wears red?

The lipstick stained rim would have been perfectly set if not for the smudge jetting off to right of the greasy rouge. Whether the imperfection was a remnant of an imperfectly released sip or an attempted clearing of the streaked mistake, I cannot tell. Shaking distraction my mind I snaps back to the question at hand “whose is this?” It was quite the surprise to wake up & find this lukewarm caffeinated tar sitting anxiously in the middle of my kitchen table, auspiciously anticipating the return of its consumer all the while spilling notes of baking chocolate & candied hazelnut into the pale morning ether. Could it be one of my roommates', had one of them had an unexpected guest, or was there now some gussied up rando lurking in my abode? I eyed the mug suspiciously, pondering not only its proprietor, but also where its contents had come from. We haven't had coffee in this house for weeks, an oversight that never seems to get remedied no matter how many times any of us happen to be out & about at the store. The more I observed, the more the neurons returned to their posts after my slumber, the more questions also I had. If I weren't already, the shockwave of the powder bathroom door careening open surely woke me.

And all at once I had my answers. All of them.