Janani Sreenivasan would like a glass of wine.
It reminded Maira of a nail paring on a pitted, uneven kitchen table, the ship on the horizon did. So light of weight, so slight. As easy to flick away as that shred of nail. As easy to chase away with a well-timed breath or curse, right on to the equally wavy floor where Hungry, the dog, would pounce on the nasty sliver with her aptly named jaws.
My Name is Kate
I am a glass of Merlot. And what they never tell you about us is that we go on dates, too. The suspense begins in the bottle. We never know which molecule of us will be chosen to go on the date, Poured out in a hurried storm that resembles an avalanche of jewels, or a rope of silk untwisting before your eyes. You might say that, in the bottle, we belong to a collective consciousness, a single unified awareness, and we don’t really know Ourselves or who We are UNTIL we are poured out, until we take the shape of the glass — until we soak up the shimmer of the décor, the swirl of the waitstaff and the roar of a restaurant rush, and become an I, a Me, a Self.