He might bite down on it,
The glass between his lips
Swirling red with wine he swallows
While fixing withering glares
At me, who only points out the obvious
As the guests murmur among themselves,
Unaware of our little argument
That cracks the glass in my hand,
Seeping little red rivulets
Stain the white cloth underneath
As I smile, sharp teeth glinting.
He never looks away, a reassurance even when we curse one another.
Regardless of what we do, we won’t shatter.