it's because of the salt.
you see, winter in this part of the country means that we must succumb to a colder air, an impractical temperature, and a slickening of otherwise passable surfaces, all to the chagrin of our usual self-possessedness. we prefer arrogance. and, arrogantly, we scatter salt over the surfaces to make them passable for our impractical shoes at the bottom of our skinny pants and thin coats. we make faces and complain about the grey skies and driving snow, even if it only happens four times in a sparkling new year. we will remember every time.
if you look at my fingers, you'll notice a crack or two at the otherwise callous crease on my writing hand's middle finger. i contemplate this biological failing daily, every time i brandish a writing utensil, every time i stir the soup or the oatmeal or her hair. the worst, of course, is tying my shoelaces. i'd forgotten what it was like to have my skin fall apart when i need it most. i'd forgotten the bleeding cracks that provide glimpses to my vulnerability underneath all those derma. i'd forgotten driving snow and curses under collared noses and salt, all that salt that couldn't stop a winter if it wanted to winter.
considering the bottle, there was no choice but to pour a glass. the label ended just above the meniscus of the red, necessitating a hearty relief of fluid into some crystal container. of course i obliged.