She cradles the glass, watching the light dance on the amber
liquid before it disappears below the surface. Dipping her head, it smells
sweet, warm, welcoming. She lifts the glass to her lips.
She grips the glass, watching as the shadow plays in the
depths, a beckoning finger. She is drawn in by the smoky, heady scent. She
knocks it back into her open, hungry mouth.
She circles the rim of the glass with her index finger, head-tilted at the meniscus where fluid meets
glass. Sitting at arm’s length, she smells nothing. A cat-like gesture nudges the glass to the edge of the
table, and she smiles as it shatters.
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