you find yourself at the bottom of a bottle. uncontrollable. unalterable. undone. wine. the wine has spilt down your shirt. it has fallen onto the carpet as well. flushed, dark and bruised. she sits next to you. no. not her. another. another that won’t make it. and the walls watch, as you attempt to clean up your mess. scrubbing. the rag is an extension of your body, sweeping back and forth like a pendulum. it has to come out. but the wine will not capitulate. it is vigorous. it has embedded itself deep into the fabric. and the polyester of your shirt was ****** from the start. how clumsy. you knew red wine would stain, didn’t you? “soap won’t get that out.” she mutters, half way out the door. “try bleach” the walls suggest.