A Golden Globe + A Bottle of Bordeaux = ?




My brain yells for me to get out of there, to head upstairs and get some fresh air and cool off, but something else keeps me in place.

I stare at the single bottle of Bordeaux, regarding it intently as it stands proudly on the counter by itself. It looks so out of place. I’m not even sure why I’m looking at it with such concentration—why I even care to focus on it the way I am—but I do so for several minutes, noticing the sleek finish of the label’s font and how the glass beautifully reflects the small amount of light in the cellar.

Maybe I should put it on the Extra Holding shelf instead of leaving it here.

The angry throbbing in my head eventually forces my focus away from the lone bottle and a tired sigh from my lips.

After a moment of internal deliberation, I finally pick it up, holding it with as much care as my hands can muster at the moment. I practically drag my aching body across the maze of a room as I make my way over to the Extra Holding shelf.

I walk around several corners, and in my tired, distressed state, truly notice just how many turns and bends there are in this place—and hate them.

I notice the golden globe again as I continue to walk over, approaching it as I take another bend. I’m not sure what exactly happens, but just as I near the globe, my left leg goes dead, completely giving out and making me lose all balance.

Everything seems to happen at once, moving so fast I can barely even react.

It’s as if I can see myself in slow-mo and in fast-forward at the same time:

My leg giving out.

The bottle slipping from my hands.

My body stumbling forward, colliding with the globe.

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