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They were casual drinking buddies, stuck for years in the same cupboard, telling each other the same old stories over and over again.
There were the good stories, those about being kissed by the lips of a very beautiful house guest. There were the ugly ones about being left in the sink for weeks, about the consequences, about throwing up mold, the pathetic decontamination scrubbings.
There were also the stories of loss. Each one of them used to belong to a set, back in the day. They used to have brothers, sisters, many, sometimes 5 sometimes even more.
The bordeaux bottle in the back was the saddest of them all. She knew that she had been stored the wrong way, she knew that the little sip of fresh air she had had a few months ago had caused irreversible damage to her body. Since she arrived here a few years ago she had hoped to find herself doing things with the last riedel glass in the group, on pristine white sheets by candle light.
Now she somehow had the feeling that what she had been saving for so long would be used in salads, mixed with oil, pepper, salt... (That's if she was lucky... )
Not only would they spill her into things to give them acidity, she would also probably be moved downstairs, with the pots and other uncultured kitchen items... (The stories she heard about shrink-wrap and zip-locks were just disgusting.)
At least for now, she was one of the happy drinking group. The survivors, the vagabonds, the experienced, sexy ones. Her stories were still about a beautiful past in France, her travels, her ripeness, her lush glowing insides (though containing sulfites)...
The riedel glass wanted her so badly.