I washed a port glass last night for the first time since The Incident.


If you are unaware, port glasses are very small, very thin tulip-shaped glasses. The ones that we stock have long stems that are incredibly delicate and have haunted me in my sleep for about two months.

The moment the wrinkled woman ordered the port, I cringed, knowing that in the next two hours I'd have to wash that glass. I've been avoiding it. Every time a ticket for port has come up, I've sent the aggravated servers to the other bar. Am I a baby? No! My scars, both physical and emotional, are still far too close to the surface.

I considered making an attempt at offering her something else but thought better of it. Eventually, I'd have to face this moment. Get it over with. Do it now. I took a deep breath and poured the sweet sweet port into my inanimate nemesis, sneering down into it. After handing it off, I glanced at the teardrop-shaped scar on my knuckle and sighed. The rest of the night I watched the bar, waiting for the glass to come back. The easy part was over -- pouring the port was not the hurdle that required jumping.

Seven thirty, the restaurant closed. The bar had been cleared, save one tiny tulip-shaped glass. I stood with my arms folded, facing off, staring it down for a full minute. It's you and me, glass, I thought, daring it to make a move. Realizing how ridiculous it must have looked to a passer-by, I grabbed it and headed for the sink. I switched on the spinning scrubbers in the sink and stared into the swirling water. Just do it. So I washed the port glass, faltering but for a moment. I steadied myself and held the base tightly as the scrubbers whirled around and around. I set it on the dry deck and flipped it off. Fuck off, port glass.

I looked again at my scar, but this time, with a newfound sense of pride. Anniemosity - 1. Port glass - well, 1. We're tied now, motherfucker.