The Empty Glass


“Are you going to finish that?” He smiled at me with eyes that glinted for a second, but never truly smiled back. 
I looked to the glass and then back at him, trying to ignore the wobbly feeling in my stomach. I was an adult now. I had to be rational, not impulsive. “It’s empty.”
So are you. 
His eyes seemed to stab back in my direction. And the feeling in my stomach increased as he casually reached past me to grab the empty glass, poking it with his fingers. I looked to the trail of fingerprints on the cheap surface, the oil and dirt and life written on his own hands. 
“If I told you this glass was full, would you believe me?” And he raised a thick, dark eyebrow at me, judging me like a king looking over his peasant. What right had he to question my belief?
In response, I held my head up high, soft curls bouncing around my chin, soft curls at edge with the determination set in my stiff jawline. “Well , it’s your lucky day. Tell me what’s in that glass and I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone else before.”
Promise? His iron eyes said, so hopeful. 
Promise. I replied, reaching for a fingerprint-covered glass which I’m sure was emptier than his teasing, intimate smile. 

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