Through its tinted glass, she watched the cork toss like a tiny boat in a thrashing sea of Burgundy. She held the bottle steady. The tumult eased. The cork swayed back and forth, turning in a lazy way. Murray had always been so good with corks. Plucked them right out. They never ended up in the bottom of the bottle when Murray did it. Must be a trick to it. Leaning over the coffee table, she stretched out her arm. The neck of the bottle hovered above her glass. She tried to hold it steady as she poured, but the bottle wavered. Some of the wine hit the rim and ran down the stem and made a shiny puddle on the table. Most of it, however, got into the glass. She took a drink. A cool drop tapped her skin and trickled down between her breasts. She followed it with her finger, wiped it away, and licked her fingertip. Least it missed the nightgown. She licked the wet base of her glass, slid her tongue up its stem, up the rounded underside, found the rim again and drank some more. Her eyes met the TV screen.
