The bottle is frozen to her palm, froth bubbling up and over and trickling down her fingers. A barely audible gurgle is masked by the whistle of air through the open window, the curtains snapping. She licks her lips. She makes no sound, doesn't breathe; listens to the single stuttering heartbeat in the room.
The only thing she wears is a white silk shirt. It does not belong to her; much like the blood slowly congealing against her breastbone, it belongs to the man she currently sits astride. His top jeans button is still undone.
She sits back, tongue darting out again to chase a stray drop from her chin. She looks down and wrinkles her nose at the rapidly staining collar of the shirt; sighing, she pulls at it and inspects the damage. Her fingers swipe through the liquid that has made its way from her collarbone to ribs, and she sucks some off her thumb absently. She takes a swig from her beer and wrinkles her nose again, and holds the bottle up to her face to inspect the label.
She stands, muttering under her breath about "cheap shit." She pads across the cool hardwood of the apartment's floor, and blood starts to drip down to her belly button in a single crawling dribble. She feels its progress as she walks into the darkened kitchen and bends to inspect the wine rack. A drop lands on the tile, another on her bare foot.
She ignores this, taps a rust-smeared finger against each bottle, her nail making a 'clink' against the hard glass bases. She pulls out a white and a red, studies both, places them next to each other on the counter. After a few moment's deliberation, she points at one, then the other, "eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catch a tiger..."
The man in the living room moans softly. Her pointing finger pauses on the white, so she replaces the red and finds a corkscrew. Rather than search for a glass, she drinks wine warm and straight from the bottle. Perching lightly atop the counter, head cocked towards the noise, she sips patiently. She rubs the spot off her foot with the cuff of the shirt. The man groans again, and she can again hear the slight bubbling of blood in his throat. Hunger stirs low in her stomach.
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