The tang of it hit her as she walked out of the station. Vinegar sweet. Shards of glass next to the bench. Couldn’t quite make out the label – Pinot? Sauvignon Blanc?
A scene of something here. A furious row and a hurled bottle. Gouges in someone’s skin. No blood though.
Perhaps the quiet catastrophe of a slippery hand. The precious contents crashing to the ground. Fermented grapes and all that delicious oblivion seeping into the concrete, trickles of it meandering around flattened chewing gum.
Did she bring the shattered base up to her lips, risked a jagged cut, the pity of others, while lapping at the last dregs?
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