The rim of the wine glass was a perfect band of black and white, as if a fragment of starlit sky raced around it.
She poured her soul into that wine glass every night and drunk it dry, her fingers so warm on the coolness of bowed glass. She never held it by the stem, not that I ever saw, but cupped it in her right hand as one might drink water from a clear river.
In that otherwise bare-essentials apartment Leo loved so much, was a solitary wine glass. It was his chosen luxury. I once assumed it was a signal he wanted to drink alone, yet to the contrary, he wished to be with a person who would drink from the same glass as he.
The wine glass had travelled far from the heat and soot of the glass district to sit among the finery of this place. It was slender, the sort that brought champagne to mind.
He held the wine glass in his over-moisturised fingers, his nails forming wall without mortar. Edna watched his face as he drank, contorted as if the expectation he might gain enjoyment from it was an imposition too far.
Terry did everything to the max and his wine glass was the same. He could sink a good half bottle into it and still have it appear only half full.
Sammy twirled the wine glass by the stem as if she has wanted a plaything and finally it had arrived. I always thought half the enjoyment came from the risk of it falling to the floor and shattering, yet every time she laughed and poured herself a glass.
Karin would drink wine as if the glass and her hand had fused in some fashion.
It was an odd thought that we were doing the wine producers a favour by filling our glasses with their labour, Maria preferred to think that it was they who had done a favour for her. It was then, as she pondered the perfection of the glass in her hand, the elegant extended bowl that it was, that the wine-maker appreciation festival was born.