It was a warm afternoon in the Nob Hill District on a beautiful spring day, when a new homeowner looked thru the tempered glass looking out towards the San Francisco Bay.
People leisurely walking below was the sight outside of his windowpane, while inside was a quaint abode with a certain quietness and arustic look he could not explain. He sauntered over to a makeshift bar: a round table covered in linen, made of cambric and lace.
Despite his classic attempts to be refined, his pseudo bar wobbled all over the place. His setup consisted of three upright wine glasses and an ’84 Châteauneuf-du-Pape strategically planted on a gold dipped tray alongside a corkscrew made of scrap.
There would be a celebration after the last box was unpacked, commemorating his transit to the Golden City. A new journey awaiting, leaving the hardships of Texas behind him when life was not so pretty.
There would be a celebration after the last box was unpacked, commemorating his transit to the Golden City. A new journey awaiting, leaving the hardships of Texas behind him when life was not so pretty.
Struggling to pierce the wine opener into the cork, his fingers fumbled, causing a delay. After three valiant attempts, he removed the cork, a crumbled collapsing mess falling on the tray. He walked away thoughtfully, allowing the wine some time to breathe. The French wine made from old-World grapes making the quaffable beverage to him the wine would bequeath.
A deafening silence covered the room, except for the humming of appliances nearby. “Psst”, an unfamiliar voice stated very casually, unacknowledged by the glass, corkscrew, and cork that was dry.
“Psst”, the voice let out again, as a decayed cork wallowed and rolled, glancing over at the glass.
A deafening silence covered the room, except for the humming of appliances nearby. “Psst”, an unfamiliar voice stated very casually, unacknowledged by the glass, corkscrew, and cork that was dry.
“Psst”, the voice let out again, as a decayed cork wallowed and rolled, glancing over at the glass.
The glass did not move a fiber, ignoring the whispering calls considered crass.
“Pour me,” the bottle rang out. The cork, dry and in shambles, was not feeling perky or sublime. "Pour me,” the bottle of wine requested again, obligating the glass to acknowledge it this time.
“Poor you,” the glass mocked the bottle of wine, feeling unsettled and glum. "Poor you? What’s with the complaining, Jesus juice. Why the long face and the look that’s dumb?”
The cork chuckled, attempting to hold onto what was left of its core, for any sudden movements would render it totally crumbled,furthermore.
“Check this guy out,” the glass expressed with agitation, tensing the structure of its body.
“The wine bottle is complaining, ‘poor me.’ Well, sir, aren’t you a ray of sunshine? Why the melancholy?
The wine couldn’t understand the perturbed nature of the glass. The elated thoughts of the wine subsided.
The wine couldn’t understand the perturbed nature of the glass. The elated thoughts of the wine subsided.
It could not understand the predicament it was finding itselfand why the symbiotic relationship was divided.
“You have something people want and thirst for, and yet you constantly complain,
‘poor me, poor me.’ You think you have problems. We all have problems just the same.”
“Yeah!” the cork snorted in agreement. Screaming his outburst of support with a gust of pride.
“You have something people want and thirst for, and yet you constantly complain,
‘poor me, poor me.’ You think you have problems. We all have problems just the same.”
“Yeah!” the cork snorted in agreement. Screaming his outburst of support with a gust of pride.
“Look at us miserable souls,” the glass side-eyed to the cork. “We live a life of vacant dreams, all empty and hollow inside.”
“I sit around day in and day out waiting to be used and enjoyed.”
The glass emphasized, “You lay in cozy, cool conditions, while by the elements we get destroyed!”
‘’You lay in darkness for years”, the tray interjected, “while I am exposed to the elements all the time.”
The bottle, the glass, and the broken cork were in a state of shock by the words of the inanimate mime.
“I protect this guy”, the cork spoke up, “and what thanks do I get?”
The wine bottle was speechless at this point, and it started to get upset.
It sighed and breathed. What started out as a proud moment had turned into an embarrassing coupe of three against one.
The wine stated again, “Pour me”, to change the tense mood to fun.
Footsteps became audible as the proud human reentered the living room, ready to pour his prize.
He approached the pseudo-bar with a fumbling gesture, causing movements of chaos he had not realized.
He moved the glass, fumbling with the stem. The anxious and excited flub of his hand caused the tumbling of the glass.
“Oohhh,” there was a sudden shriek, then plummeting to the wooden floor came the crash.
The cork hissed in laughter, realizing it was not the only one in shambles.
The wine sighed, breathing in more air, as they listed to the human ramble.
The human cleaned up the mess of shards before pouring the wine into a different glass that appreciated being used. Into the trash the disintegrated cork and shattered glass went,while the wine, tray, and other glasses were amused.
The wine finally received its wish: fulfilling its purpose of being poured, a path in which he stayed on course.
Until the end of his journey, he would then be tossed away, only for the human to search again for another quenchable source.
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