Anna observes the chrome railing at the far end of the balcony. She advances, making her way through a maze of lounge chairs and side tables. Her hand brushes a glass of Trousseau. A remainder from last night’s function. It tips over—ruby pools on a tile. The glass doesn’t shatter.
She looks down at the spill and scans its surface. Her gaze searches for an entrance, but finds no way in. Legs fold. Her hand picks up the glass. Legs unfold. She retreats to the room.
Moments later, the same hand returns carrying a napkin. Resting it over the spill, she invites a stain to envelop its pores—a blush her own could never accommodate. Her fingers press into the stain and perform circular motions. This continues until every opening of the fabric is full. Pinching the center of the stain, she raises it to unveil bare ceramic. Her fingers curl around the napkin. Dampness stretches beneath them.
She makes her way to the chrome railing and leans against it. A ray of light pierces through the horizon and brushes her cheek. She leans further, and lets go.
