The Great, Shuddering Sobs
The bottle tipped like a menacing needle, slowly plunging below the surface of the chipped glass rim, expelling its vineyard blood in silent relief. The air, forced out of its place at the bottom of the glass, revelled in its newfound, refined acidity. Hints of oak and earth wove their way up through, demanding to be known. The dark drink folded itself like liquid chocolate, over and over, melting into its own growing, burnt body.
The pouring stopped abruptly. The glass was almost full; it begged to be topped-up just that little more. Yet that man with the wine bottle in one spidery hand had decided it was enough — for now, anyway. Perhaps, too, he was expecting his shaking hands to be unable to hold a full glass level.
He lifted the glass and raised it to his lips. The aroma snapped at him, and he closed his eyes to stop himself from diving in and drowning himself under the dark surface. He leaned back in the white plastic chair, as brittle and rough as coral. It groaned in response to the shift in weight, but was quickly silent.
The man took a long sip of the wine, without pause or consideration for the taste.
And so began the great, shuddering sobs.