It was empty until now, when she finally poured it quarter way up with the red wine that's been left open since she had sat down, probably an hour ago. She watches as the dark, red liquid falls into the bottom of the glass, rises in circular waves but soon levels off. She pretended, for a split second, that this was a commercial for some cheap wine during prime time. She rotated the bottle a little as she stopped pouring, catching a final drip from the mouth of the glass neck. And when she set the bottle back down, carefully, almost at the same exact spot where she had lifted it a moment ago, she heard the soft sound of the bottom of the glass bottle meeting the marble surface of her dining table. Then with left arm resting on the cool surface, she lifted the glass with her other arm, faintly made a toast as she tried to smile a little, eyes becoming more moist, and sipped down the nectar. She savored every bit of the decadent liquid in her mouth, on her tongue, her palates, gums, and let its powerful aroma irrigate through her nose, maybe even the wetting eyes. Her blue eyes twinkled a little when she heard a sound. Her senses all shut down as she tried to pay attention.
It was just her cat in the kitchen munching on the remaining bits of the food from this afternoon.
She took another sip and then rested the glass next to her empty, beautiful, porcelain plate. She didn't notice the faint reflection on this beautiful piece of ceramic reserved, along with its brother across the table, for special occasions such as that which might have been tonight. She was, instead, looking at the cork, the inscription on it. It was the name of the wine he had mentioned so many times, said so often that he wish he could have a taste of what many said was the best bottle of the decade.
But now the decade had ended. It ended probably half an hour ago. She has ignored the clock in the kitchen all this time. She knew that it had passed because she had been startled earlier, by the revelers outside and the fireworks. Every now and then an explosion could still be heard outside. But by now she was no longer noticing anything except possible footsteps, doorbells (in case he had lost his keys), or at least, a phone call.
The inscriptions on the bottle cork became her fixation. She stared at it for some time before she tried to pick up the glass again by the stem only to suddenly let it back down as she let her head fall slowly on her resting arm. Her sobs did not go unnoticed. Her cat had long stopped eating and had been watching her, and watching even more intently now as she was making little sounds, shaking, but remained still at her beautifully carved oak dining chair. The candle had been blown out shortly after the sounds of the fireworks had commenced, but there was still a wisp of smoke streaming from it, still so resilient, in reminding the observer that the ending was not to be reversed, the disappointment not to be undone, and she would be in this state long before the wick of the slender candle becomes cold and dark again.
