Wine glass

I’m at 30,000 feet heading out over the Atlantic. A wine glass in hand. What the hell is going he , she, (it), speaks to me.

I’ve been wet inside to the brim 3 times already. The spectacular blonde, sweet of voice, already served 2 Jacks, single barrel mash, before the. Shrimp and chowder were served. She’s back well before I’m empty of the 2016 Chardonnay from an unknown chateau in the Loire valley. But here I sit on the double folded tray, with magnetic dinnerware, coming down from an excellent breaded halibut.

Sue, sore hip in remission, tries to let her now empty third glass of the Chard sit alone like mine. Decaf s, from the secular Starbucks, tries to replace the glass, the attitude adjusting glass, and wins hands down. Mine, by the way, is now in overdrive, it’s words, not mine, ready to facilitate a demolition of a slice of NY Cheesecake. God, what a hell of a night I had before I get scalded in a dishwasher at 30,000 feet. All over again tomorrow.