July 8, 2007
Jennifer Love Hewitt was in her kitchen, reading about iPhones and drinking water out of a pint glass she had stolen from a pub in London many years ago. A lifetime ago, back when she was still dating Will. They took a quick vacation while she was on break from PO5, and had spent one intensely sunny afternoon sitting outside a pub off Tottenham Court Road. Jen confessed that she wanted to steal her pint glass as a souvenir; Will smiled and kicked her bag over to her, under the table.
She wasn’t sure it would survive the trip back to the hotel, but it did. She wasn’t sure it would survive the trip back to the States in her carry-on, but it did. Every time she drank from it, she wondered if this would be the last time. If she would trip on her way back to the kitchen and it would fly from her hand. Or if the force from the dishwasher would nudge another glass against it, cracking it. Or if some friend would grab it out of her cupboard at a party and treat it carelessly, not knowing the history behind it. But it never broke. She kept envisioning bad things happening to the glass, but she’d been using it at least once a week for 10 years now.
A friend of hers died earlier this year. A really close friend, from the internet, from the early days. Theirs hadn’t been a smooth relationship; they’d fought pretty regularly and about a wide range of things over the years. But they’d always worked it out, and Jen knew that they fought because they cared about each other, and that her friend was never afraid to say what she really thought, because she felt Jen deserved that.
So Jen was reading about iPhones and thinking about what’s important to people and missing her friend and realizing how fucking stupid it was that you could steal a glass and wonder every time you use it when it would break, but never once, in a relationship with a good friend, wonder if this would be the last time they fought, if this would be the last time they talked on the phone, if this would be the last time they sent birthday presents to each other, if this would be the last time they emailed.
Jen closed her laptop and had the strongest desire to just let the glass go; throw it or let it fall and smash itself across the floor. It would be over, and she wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. Wouldn’t have to wonder or think about it anymore, it would just be done, and in the past, with no more questions about it.
But she didn’t. She just put it back in the sink with the other glasses.