A Bold Selection

The glass reflected vibrant hues in a mesmerizing way. Like the finest oil on the clearest ice, I was transfixed and sad at the same time. The irony of this tragedy is not a subtle whim. A passing grace of a soul that is destined for… for—

“Did you forget your line?”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This is mine. If I break now, I’m not sure I could get back here.

“Earth to Lee. Make it happen, or did we make the wrong choice?”

I don’t answer. I don’t nod. I don’t acknowledge the voice at all. I let the words fall to the floor and stay there. I can use this energy. I let a tear peek from the edge of my eye, feel it slide down my cheek, slow enough that I have time to decide not to stop it.

The silence on set is so complete I can hear the hum of the camera, the faint buzz from the lighting rigs, the low electrical patience of the room itself. It feels like the building is holding its breath with me, waiting to see what I’ll do next.

A door in the distance clicks softly.

As if on cue, I wipe the tear away. An uncontrolled sniffle. Not meant, but golden.

I don’t move.

I don’t breathe right away.

The glass is colder than I expect. It always is. I lift it, and it trembles just slightly in my hand. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Enough for me. I watch the tremor as if it might tell me something if I give it enough time, as if there’s an answer hiding in the shake.

I lift the glass, not to drink. Not even close. I lift it the way you lift something fragile you don’t trust yourself with yet. To remember what it was like to think there would always be more.

“I used to think moments announced themselves.”

My voice cracks on used. I hear it. I let it stay where it lands.

“That the important ones arrived with weight. With music. With someone telling you to pay attention.”

I turn the glass slowly, deliberately, watching the light slide across the curve, fracture, then disappear entirely. I rotate it again, slower this time, just to be sure it’s gone and not hiding somewhere I missed.

“But they don’t.”

I stop. I let the sentence sit there by itself, thin and inadequate.

“They just… pass through you.”

I swallow. There’s nothing there. The reflex doesn’t care.

“People leave. Time leaves. Certainty leaves.”

I pause, frowning slightly, reconsidering the order.

“Not all at once,” I add quietly.

“Not with permission.”

I glance at the glass again, as though it might contradict me, as though it might object to being included in this.

“And most of the time,” I continue, slower now, “you don’t even notice it happening.”

My thumb traces the rim. Habit. Memory. Something learned young and never questioned.

“It’s later,” I say.

“It’s always later.”

A breath slips in where I didn’t plan one.

“You’re standing somewhere ordinary. A kitchen. A table. Somewhere you’ve stood a hundred times.”

“And something’s finished.”

I turn the glass a fraction more, testing the weight, the balance.

“Not dramatically.”

“Not tragically.”

“Just… done.”

Another pause. The room leans in without realizing it. Even the camera seems patient.

“And you realize,” I say, almost to myself, “being done isn’t the same thing as being broken.”

I swallow again, slower this time.

“I’ve held onto things long after they were gone.”

Another pause. Longer.

“Believed if I kept my grip tight enough, they’d come back.”

A breath sneaks out of me. It almost sounds like a laugh, which irritates me. I stop it before it can become one.

“That’s not how it works.”

The set is silent. I don’t hear the lights anymore. I don’t hear the crew. I don’t hear the director shifting his weight. All I hear is my own pulse, loud and stupid, insisting on continuing whether I want it to or not.

“Sometimes all you get is the echo.”

I lift the glass slightly, angling it toward my ear as if that makes sense, as if sound might still live there.

“The shape something made before it vanished.”

I finally look at the camera. Not pleading. Not selling. Just admitting. Letting the lens have it without negotiation, without defense.

“And sometimes that has to be enough.”

I close my eyes.

Not because I’m overwhelmed. Because I’m remembering the feeling of a passing. Not the moment I found out she was gone. Not the phone call. Not the words. The moment after. The quiet moment when your body catches up to the information and realizes it has to reorganize itself around an absence it didn’t agree to.

My lip quivers. I don’t fight it. Tears edge my eyes again, threatening, undecided. I wipe them away with the heel of my hand, a little too roughly, like I’m annoyed they came back.

I open my eyes.

The bottle is there. It’s been there the whole time. I hadn’t noticed it, which bothers me more than it should. I look at it now. Then the glass. Then the bottle again. I inhale sharply, so sharply it catches me off guard and I almost lose the thread entirely.

A half-smile escapes. I don’t invite it. It just happens.

Humanity. The word crosses my mind, fully formed, and I hate it immediately. It’s too neat. Too easy. I start to say it anyway, then stop myself halfway through the breath.

I shake my head, almost imperceptibly.

I lift the glass again and bring it to my nose. I inhale through my nose, slow, methodical, like I’m testing something important. The smell of oil coats the inside. It’s not unpleasant. It’s familiar. It smells like use. Like effort. Like something that once served a purpose and now only carries evidence of that fact.

It’s definitely not wine.

I open my eyes and stare at the empty flute again, longer than necessary. Long enough that someone behind the monitor shifts, uncomfortable with how long this has gone on.

Then, almost as an afterthought, as if I’ve only just remembered why I’m here:

“Which is why…”

I stop. The words feel premature. I wait until they don’t.

A pause. A tiny, involuntary half-smile breaks through. It surprises me. I let it stay, just long enough to acknowledge it exists.

“When the world feels heavier than it should…”

I glance at the glass, as if checking whether it agrees.

“I reach for Perky Meadow Sunshine Splash.”

The name feels ridiculous in my mouth. I don’t adjust it. I don’t soften it. I give it the same care I gave everything else.

I glance at the glass again. Still empty. Still patient.

“Completely unconcerned,” I add, after a moment, dissatisfied.

“And aged for memories,” I correct, quieter.

“Let it pull you through your journey.”

The smile lingers this time. It doesn’t grow. It doesn’t shrink. It just exists.

“Perky Meadow Sunshine Splash.”

I say it again because repetition matters.

“Because even when what you expected is gone…”

A beat.

“You’re allowed to enjoy what comes next.”

Silence.

The camera keeps rolling. No one says anything. No one moves. It’s the kind of quiet that starts to feel irresponsible, like someone should step in but no one knows how.

Somewhere off-camera, barely contained, not angry yet but headed there:

“…Cut?”

I lower the glass.

No one moves.

A few seconds pass. Then more. Too many.

Finally, the director exhales hard, the sound sharp enough to cut through the room.

“…It was a great take,” he says, rubbing his face hard as if trying to rub off his own thoughts.

Then, without looking up:

“But for the love of God, Lee… it’s just some cheap wine and a damn empty glass.”