Linda lifted her glass too quickly, and the wine sloshed into the air in a slow, winding stream. Tiny purple-red globules scattered as she moved the cup to catch the descending column.
"You're upset," said Raymond.
"No, no," Linda said. She attempted to sip the wine.
"I thought it would be romantic."
"It *is* romantic," said Linda. "Up here, among the stars... it's... it's a lovely idea."
Raymond stabbed at his plate. A round meatball shot away from his fork like a comet, trailing a tomato-sauce tail.
Linda slurped at her wine. "Perhaps something other than Italian next time, though."
That Pot Or Vase I Think
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