The Wine Glass

Sunlight cast a glare across the sky, announcing the end of the rainstorm that bathed the city for more than a day. In the expanse of the living room, streaks of white light echoed off the floorboards and cast long shadows of window panes over the living room set. There were a few pictures of landscapes and lighthouses draping the walls. Nothing personal. Nothing made the room feel lived in, except for one thing. An empty wine glass.

It sat quiet and alone on a white mantle, a glint of sunshine sparkling across its smooth body. In the bottom of the glass, a minuscule puddle of red wine sat undisturbed and flat. There were small fingerprints smudging clarity and around the mouth a pink imprint of a woman's lip. Frail and delicate, lined with cracks and blurred from several short sips. The lipstick tasted like bitter sugar and reminded him of a kiss. The kiss reminded him of her smile. Her smile reminded him of her laugh. Her laugh reminded him of her eyes.

She was so bashful, she covered her mouth when she laughed. She even shut her eyes. In only three hours time, he fell in love with the way she opened her eyes. Her brown irises danced in to focus and belied her intensity. Her body was fragile and sleek, but her eyes were sharp and hungry. She was an observer of the world around her, no matter what people thought of her. With those long, winter brunette locks flowing around her face, she could hide in her own shadow and watch life. It was that routine that made her such an honest storyteller.

He'd known a lot of storytellers in his life, all shapes and sizes. She was the only one he knew who told stories to her own music. She sat so prim and proper on his couch, sunken deep in plush cushions, but still maintained the zeal of a great performer. He recalled her sitting in a chair up on a smoky stage, cradling a gut string guitar and a cello. Both instruments had stories that she relayed to him, here in the sanctity of his home. He treasured those stories and was afraid to think about them for fear of losing the magic. He watched with wonder as she sat behind a piano, a glass of water beside her, her throaty voice heartily aching over places seen and loves left behind.

She played for not quite an hour, refusing to earn more money by sticking around to perform covers of fan favorites. For her, the power of music lied deep in her soul and breathed through her. To sing someone else's songs about someone else's experiences simply felt wrong. She needed to know for herself how the heartbreak and the joy felt. How could you talk about love without knowing the embrace of it? He'd never given it much thought, but, this morning he was surveying his collection of albums and discs, setting aside only those recordings by men and women who wrote their own success. It was a small collection in that aspect, he thought.

He sat in his favorite chair for twenty six minutes, staring at the place on the couch where she sat hours ago. The room was filled with music she grew up on, their voices speaking softly and honestly across the notes. She didn't talk about former lovers or her hopes for the future. Instead, they talked about little things like the smell of a warm kitchen, a house in the country, swimming in the summer. She smiled when he suggested they were both hopeless romantics. Then she stood, the wine glass in hand, and moved to the windows to watch the rain. She didn't speak, only watched her breath making clouds on the glass.

He sat staring at her, the gentle lull of her hips to music in her mind. The way her fingertips curled around the glass and brushed her hair away from her eyes. In this place, there was nothing for her to hide from. She watched for staggering cars in the streets below, the occasional flicker of light in the windows of strangers' homes. Confident he wouldn't be a song about her broken heart, she moved slowly across the floor and placed her wine glass on the empty mantle. The oil lamp bore a flame that danced across the ceiling and made ripples in the shadows. Her fingertips were cold, still she touched her silky dress.

Her eyes locked on his, so dark she couldn't tell the color, and with nervous confidence, she revealed her skin to him a button at a time. She let the strap that had been falling off her shoulder all evening continue to slide down her arm. Rubbing the dress away, she looked at the calm grin on his face. How she loved his approval. She felt the damp air on the curve of her bare breasts and against her back, tingling in her skin and into her bones. When her fingertips clutched the waistband of her black panties, he slid out of his chair. His warm, rough hands touched her smooth flesh, halting her. Her dark painted lids closed and breath hung in her chest.

At her feet, he ran his fingers up her hips, into her panties and took them down her slender legs. She stepped out of them and looking down, watched as he carefully moved her wardrobe to the relaxed chair. Straightening in posture, he rubbed against her, his white shirt brushing her skin, his strong arms slithering around her slightly wide hips and holding her close. He planted a single kiss, low on her abdomen. She hoped it would be the first and that she would recount the story to him anniversaries away from tonight. Her fingertips found his hair, short and straight, golden amber strands mixed with black.

Again he kissed her, just beside her navel and she shivered. Dropping onto her knees, her bare feet behind her, she kissed his mouth, tasting two blends of wine and thirsting for more. It had been too long since a good man held her. Too long since she felt someone else's heart beating on her breast. Her back arched when he kissed her throat and she felt his strong arms lift her. In a second's time, she was floating and nestled in his embrace. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his face as he carried her. She glanced at the white door before them and clutched his arm with her legs as she saw a soft bed with iron rails and heavy blankets.

Promise me you won't break my heart. Promise me that when the sun comes up you will hold me close and listen to my words. Promise me that in ten years you will still think I'm special. She never said the words out loud because she wasn't sure if she meant them for him or for herself. She sighed and rubbed the hair on his chest, beneath his shirt, and longed for the connection of having him inside of her, feeling her body against his. It didn't matter what God had in store for the two of them. He was going to be a list of songs some day.