She had been reaching for the martini glass for nearly a minute, shifting from her right tippy toes to her left. The impulse to just get on the counter and get the damn glass was something she had begun to fight based on her age and her insistence that an adult shouldn’t need to climb to reach something in her own kitchen.
Plus, she had already stuffed herself into her black waxed denim jeans to prevent any pre-concert snacking that might upset her plans to station herself at the front of the stage. Making new friends as an adult was nearly impossible and she wasn’t keen to be the new girl who lists her food allergies like they’re hobbies. Gin and vermouth were not on her list though and she needed a drink before meeting this group outside the time and fluorescent lighting of their office.
So, she did what any adult woman would. She jumped.
Aiming her thumb and pointer finger at the base of the glass she was sure she had it, but then her fingers were empty. Her eyes registered a streak of glass falling in the kind of slow motion that allowed her enough time to see her whole evening play out through the filter of her embarrassment, but not enough time to catch the damn glass.
It’s going to shatter, she thought as the counter edge sent the glass into an outward twirl towards the center of her tiny kitchen.
This is part of the Writer’s Digest A Year of Writing Prompts