My hand hovered over the mug. Would today be the day I won the lottery?

My fingertips brushed past blue, green and yellow before pinching the red one. Yes, let’s try the red one today.

I tugged the red ink pen out of the jam-packed coffee mug. Clicked it. Tried to write. I pushed harder through a swirl of circles. The nib tore through the notepad, but spilled no ink.

“Another dud,” I muttered. “How is it that I possess hundreds of pens, none of which work?”

I jammed the dead and dried ink stick back into the crowded mug.

“Oh. Yeah. That’s why.”

I sighed and dislodged a green pen from the mess. “Maybe this one. Or did I try this pen last week?”

Next to about every seat in the house, my late wife had placed a coffee mug packed full of pens. She also stashed nail files, scissors and reading glasses into lots of them, but mostly the mugs were crammed to the last drop with ink pens.

Why did Terry do this? It was completely unnecessary. Did she not see when she married me that I already owned a mug collection? And that they already were peppered and packed with pens?

Most people keep a desk drawer full of useless pens. Close the drawer, and the embarrassment of inkless wonders is out of sight and out of mind.

But Terry and I dropped each new Bic, Paper Mate and Pilot that came into our house into the nearest mug (I don’t drink coffee, so pens didn’t become dunking sticks).

I hold a long fascination with ink pens — particularly if they’re free. At every fair, convention, sales pitch, business or bank, if someone gives away pens, I take one. Two, if they let me.

I have pens stamped with the logos of businesses I never frequented, politicians for whom I never voted, schools I never attended and mottos I never believed.

Why I love pens so much, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s because I’m a writer. But it’s been decades since I used pen and paper to write. I’m tapping away on a laptop at this very moment to write this.

Yes, I am surrounded by ink pens, two of which are resting on the keyboard itself. But I’m not using them. Who knows if they work?

At any given time, I am carrying two to four pens in at least one of my pockets. I’m prepared in case inspiration strikes. Or if I need to add cookies to the grocery list.

It’s a false sense of always being prepared because I never remember to carry a notebook or scraps of paper.

Have you ever tried to outline the plot of a novel on your forearm? By the time you get home, you’ve lost half of it to sweat. Or you’ll pass out from pain because none of the pens in your pocket work, so you had to etch the ideas into your skin.

Sometimes, a random person will ask if I have a pen they can borrow. “I’ll trade you one of my pens for a scrap of paper,” I’ll reply. “And a couple of bandages.”

This long holiday weekend, I need to round up the dozens of coffee mugs filled to the brim with ink pens and test every single one of the things. Any past the last drop and no longer good go straight into the trash.

I should have asked Terry years ago to throw out all the useless things. But I didn’t want to risk it. She might have eyed me as one of them.

Anyway, once I empty a few mugs, I might even learn to, you know, drink coffee. I’ve never had an empty mug before. Let me jot coffee on my shopping list. Now let’s see, do any of these pens work…

Tap out words to Cole at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or find him on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook. Don’t wait for a handwritten reply. He can’t find a pen that works.