A Tale of Two Glasses
My husband just stood there, unable to answer any of my questions. The two wine glasses, one with a red lipstick smudged on it, flirted on the nightstand. The room was quiet, but my ears hurt from the unforgiving sound of collapse, of everything we had worked so hard to build together. His excuses cracked and shattered before reaching me, landing on the pile of debris before my feet.
As I slowly walked backwards towards the bedroom door, my eyes focused on the glasses: they were small and cheap, with thick stems and plain feet. Without saying another word, I walked over to the kitchen and found the two crystal wine glasses we’d bought together during the early years of our marriage. They were fragile and expensive, with delicate engravings and etchings. I grabbed them carefully by their thin stems and walked out.