The wine glass is shaped like a bottom-heavy Señorita; I look at it longingly, my stare fixed through it. I trace my fingers over each curve and dip the tip of my left index into the ruby red liquid. My right hand mimics the tap of the rain on the awning outside, digits strumming steadily on the kitchen table, lightening flashes disbursing into the rhythm mixed.
There’s no way you want me as much as I want you. It’s not possible.
I stare out of the window into blackness. How I wish I could step outside into the wet fall and wash myself clean.
I know my thoughts of you would remain, though. You are embedded, right where you belong.
Thunder growls in the distance.