Slipping
The condensation clung desperately to the glass as it began to slip down the vertical sides towards the mahogany stain table top. There it joined the amassing throng of water congregating at the ring. As the glass lifted free of the surface the water converged on the dry centre to be squashed by the returning glass.
Saul stared at the slowly changing water with marked concentration far beyond the capacity of his usual five pint threshold. It was becoming increasingly difficult to forget the hollow shell he wished to obliterate.
He raised his glass again and gulped down the dregs of his pint. The face that floated before him as a constant reminder faded with every swallow. One more pint should do the trick.
1 comment:
This feels so much better than mine - maybe the first paragraph could be turned into the start of a poem (or prose poem if you can work out what one of them is).
Glad we did the exercise - what next?
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