Red Wine

You imagine lounging at the beach, swirling your wine, as your folding chair sinks deeper into the sodden grass. 

“Just put mine in the fridge,” you say, reading the freshly etched words that have somehow already gathered dirt in their grooves. “I’m having a drink with our daughter.” 

“We can still go—”

You hang up. 

Once the sun sets, you clink glasses with the one balanced on the stone. 

It tips. 

You reach for it, spilling your own glass. “Why would you—I mean... Damn it! I’m sorry, I shouldn't have—” You look down at the dark stain seeping into your shirt. “What a fucking mess.”