By Gemma Bristow
She finds the wine glass in a corner of the cabinet. An odd one, left by itself. Even cloudy with dust, its curve shapes the light among the hoard of cheap tumblers and high-balls.
She holds it up. Had this been her mother’s? An heirloom, a wedding gift? Had there been others in the set? She can’t remember its fellows being broken, but then a lot of things have broken.
No glassware, say the signs at the recycling place. Stooping, she puts it in the pile for the charity shop, beside the bin of clear, winking bottles, following the rules.
Bio: Gemma Bristow is a technical writer who tries not to think about software interfaces all the time. She’s currently trying to place a YA historical novel.