I forgot to write about the cherry glass that had a little bit of Champaign left at the bottom. I was sitting by the Potomac River, contemplating, day dreaming when I noticed the glass on my right. I wondered why someone would just leave it there. Then I wondered about having a glass of my own…
The cherry glass made the scene romantic. And I knew then that it would be worth writing about. But now that I have described the glass and the setting of the scene, I do not know how to tell you the rest of the story. I do not know because there is no story. I could make up a story where a beautiful, lonely girl encounters a beautiful man with a French accent and he offers her his glass and she takes a sip and he takes her hand and…
In reality, where imagination is strictly banned, there was no French man. There was no beautiful girl.
There was a cherry glass with a bit of Champaign left at the bottom. The night was cool and there was a lonely middle-aged man sitting to my right. I was moving to the rhythm of my music and the night was mine.
You can’t get more real than that…