The martini glass held firm; definitely glued to the table. Gabrielle tried to pry it off with her fingernails - in bad need of cutting, in bad need of painting, in bad need of something - but that didn't help at all. What kind of restaurant glued their martini glasses to the table? Was she expected to drink her gin martini like a dog, like some snivelling animal? Gabrielle was the kind of woman who liked to hold her head up and speak directly to people's faces; she didn't drink stuck martinis. It didn't matter that she craved the first sip, she wasn't going to dignify this situation with a response. She left without paying, offering only a curt grimace to the blond waiter with the all-black suit on, the regulation number of "hip" piercings on his head. Never again would she order a martini called "The Rubber Cement." She had more dignity than that.
By Ben Rawluk
The martini glass cast its shadow over the wall for three days before Jerry thought about cleaning it. It was the fifth month since he decided to be non-compulsive, and instead of starting a cigarette habit, or something daring to mark the O, he spent eighty-bucks at the stores. On his credit card he swiped jeans, a backpack, and a chai mochachino at a coffee house. His old clothes would no longer do. "Fuck my old clothes," Jerry said over his beverage.
Outside the mall was quiet. A few Asian mobs and packs of street men wandered by. People alone or in pairs walked swiftly. The inside of the coffee house was chilly and dry from the air conditioner, and everywhere was the sound of hum. New shoes. The idea struck him like a bitch in heat.
At home the neighbors rumbled under him. The house shook with appliances he'd never seen, but the martini glass held firm.
By Matt B.