The Glass That Wouldn’t Empty

The glass felt heavy with each sip, though it hadn’t emptied. My fingers slipped slightly against the condensation, but I didn’t set it down. I kept drinking.

The first taste had been familiar, something I’d craved. But it faded too quickly, dissolving into nothing.

I tipped the glass again. Coldness slid down my throat. X was supposed to be comforting, nostalgic. But the flavor was simply out of reach, teasing me as I tightened my grip.

Across the table, a man stared into his own drink. His lips twitched upward, like he was enjoying himself. I wanted to slap the glass out of his hand, demand he tell me what he tasted. But I stayed still.

The bar was crowded but quiet in the way places get when people are trying not to listen to one another. The bartender glanced my way, In her eyes held familiarity, she looked past me to the next order. I raised my hand, hesitant.

“Another?” she asked.

“No. Just… something stronger.”

She poured. I drank. The same result.

I was getting angry now, though I didn’t know why. The man across from me smirked. I wanted to punch him. My knuckles ached just imagining it.

“What do you taste?” I asked.

He leaned back, rolling the glass between his palms. “What do you taste?”

“Nothing.”

“Exactly.”

I froze. My pulse in my ears.

“What does that mean?” I asked, my voice quieter.

He shrugged. “You tell me.”

I drank again. And again. I couldn’t stop. My throat burned, but I felt no relief, no satisfaction.

The bartender stopped watching me altogether. The man got up and left without a word.

I stared at the glass, now empty. When I looked up, the bar was gone. I stood, and my chair scraped against nothing.

“Hello?” My voice was sent without walls.

And then I was awake.

The glass was gone. My hands were empty. My mouth tasted like nothing at all.