A Heart of Grapes

 

Do we die alone, or in being alone do we die?

She reaches for the last sip of wine, placing her mouth on the leftover lipstick stain. There’s a faint aroma wafting into her nose as it sinks further into the glass. For a moment there is no movement. This elixir, this sustenance of pleasure, awaits her lapping tongue. She breathes in, tilting her head back as the warm drizzle fills her mouth. And for a second her cheeks feel rosy and firm. But when the tingle weakens and the color fades, she remembers.

She remembers how many paychecks the bottle took away. She remembers how many bottles demanded a broken glass. She remembers how many broken glasses resulted in unresolved arguments. She remembers how many arguments led to a broken heart. And she remembers how many broken hearts it took to mistrust love.

 Tonight another bottle will be poured, a glass will break, and hands will run crimson. Tonight… a heart will die one more time.