The Wine Glasses

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Photo by KG

The pinot grigio sits long stemmed in a perfectly plump, but contained wine glass.

The merlot lounges much more luxuriously in the center of the table. His red richness is a mellow kind of extravagance that comes out with a tinge of half narcissism and half artistic creativity.

“I’ve seen this exhibit before. Not here of course,” The merlot says in his deep voice.  “But they’re all the same.”

The pinot grigio looks up from her solitary spot on the table. “I think they’re lovely,” She stares at the appropriate black and white frames that surround photographs of lonely train tracks and empty metal cat dishes.

“Lovely if you like Photography 101. Back when I was in Italy, there were some real artists there.”

“Are you originally from there?” The pinot grigio hopes he doesn’t ask her where she’s from. She knows she has some Australian roots, but how far back they run, she isn’t quite sure.

The merlot doesn’t answer. Instead he says, “I was visiting there just recently when I saw some real art. Giant paintings of the most beautiful colors you could imagine. Colors that aren’t even available in the United States.”

“I’m sure we have the same colors here as they do in Italy.”

“No, no. It wasn’t just the colors that made it, it was the eccentricity of it all. The art opening was only open from three until six in the morning and you had to have a password to get in.”

“And you had it,” the pinot grigio tips her glass back with a peculiar laugh.

“Oh absolutely. I’ve been there several times. I have a hard time sleeping.”

“You’re an all-nighter,” the pinot grigio wonders if it’s past ten yet.

“I’m whatever you want me to be,” he smiled.

Gone. Her wish hangs delicately in the air like the faint sound of a passing exhale. She is completely drained already.