[font="times new roman"]Up on the 13th floor of the apartment building at 27 West 72nd Street sat a solitary man. He casually sipped his wine every now and then, nervously glancing at the Black Pill on his nightstand every other now and then. [/font]
[font="times new roman"]He found nothing special about the wine. It had cost him almost two hundred dollars and did not live up to its price so much as he had anticipated. He peered into the crimson swirls of the glass, trying to pick out the shadows of his fingers on the other side. He held the glass with his thumb at the front, closest to his face, with his index and middle finger supporting the far side of the glass, letting his last two fingers provide support to the underside.[/font]
[font="times new roman"]His father had taught him to hold the wine in this way. Never hold White Wine by the body, his father once shouted at him in the middle of a Thanksgiving Dinner. With a red face and green fingers he quietly adjusted the glass on cue so that it’s fragile neck was cradled between his thumb and forefinger, buttressed from below by his other three fingers. [/font]
[font="times new roman"]That was eleven years ago.[/font]
[font="times new roman"]He tried to breathe calmly. The clerk had had to retrieve the wine from the back of the store, asking for the occasion as he read labels and cleared away empty crates. The man pretended not to hear him, but the clerk persisted. Still the clerk came up with his hands empty and decided to give up his interrogation. [/font]
[font="times new roman"]Back in his room the walls had begun to close in on him, and he realized that he had to act soon or else he would pass out from the wine. [/font]
[font="times new roman"]He had always been afraid by wine stores. His father often took him to get wine at least once a month, instructing him on the best wines and the best years. He could never pay attention to his father however. The walls were filled with glass statuettes, beckoning a clumsy hand or a misplaced foot. He imagined a watery cascade of alcohol, followed by a wall of fiery stares and poorly hidden glances.[/font]
He turned his body towards the nightstand and when he found that he could no longer operate his left arm, he dropped the bottle from his right and stretched it out towards the pill. There were two now and he didn’t know which one to take. He reached for the right one but felt only hard wood. Then he reached for the left one and experienced similar results. He closed his eyes and felt around for it. Feeling. Feeling. What expensive wine….