"It just fell over?"
"Yes," she says.
"And you just let it. Fall over?"
"Didn’t it occur to you that maybe you could catch it? Stop it?"
"The glass isn’t broken, the wine was finished, why are you angry with me?" she asks, resetting the glass upright.
"Who’s angry? Not me. I’m not angry."
"They’re on their way here. Don’t get worked up, you’ll spoil things."
"Who is? I’m not angry. I just can’t understand why on earth we can’t go one day without you acting like a floozy."
"I think you mean a ditz."
"Or a klutz. Whatever I mean— you know."
"I know," she says, smoothing a wrinkle on her apron.
He cups her face in his hands and lifts her head, his thumbs rubbing her cheeks softly, “Let me take a look at you.”
In another universe she watches it happen, motionless as the glass tips, the red liquid slowly gliding along the smooth curve of its bowl. It seems almost a ballet, for a moment it balancing, standing on the edge of its circular foot. There the glass is not empty, and her hands do not stir as its contents bleed onto the white table linen.
The moisture seeps beneath her fingertips, her palms. She watches it move slowly as if controlled, expanding outward from the glass still lying on its side, inching toward the edge of the table, staring as the wine travels over the edge and collects in a pocket of cloth that hangs from the corner. At first a steady stream, the drip slows to a soft tick— as if keeping in time with a clock.
A key sounds in the lock behind her, and she closes her eyes as someone enters the room. She can feel their look, the dry lubrication of their intentions— can hear them emptying their pockets, setting down their keys, their briefcase— can feel their footsteps drawing near— can hear them say, “I’ll get the towels.”
"Oh, don’t bother," she says, "they’re here."