Claret

An evening. Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. An alfresco meal, progressively growing cold. A bottle of 1982 Chateau Latour Claret. Two Bordeaux glasses; one half filled, one shattered. Pieces of glass in a puddle of red. A thin rivulet of Claret, flowing gently, mixing with the flow of blood. Slowly congealing blood; red, like the rose in its exquisite crystal vase. A solitary rose, providing silent company to the occupants of the table. A hand on the bottle; a long steady drag of wine. A hand run casually through ruffled locks. A hand putting the gun back in its holster. A scarred hand, steady, calm, in control.

In hindsight, it wasn't necessary. Then again, much in life isn't.