The lights are dimmed and the room full of various ornaments and ointments is bathing in a soft red glow. A wicker candle is flickering by the old dusty hearth. Two children are staring deep into the flames inside.
In the other end of the room, a wine is opened, marked by the sighing *pop* of the cork coming out. She smiles and goes from chair to chair, pouring for the guests and correcting her hair. A wrinkly old man sits in silence at the end of the long table as he waits for his turn. The young girl approaches him and receives a nod of approval from the elder. She pours. She pauses. She awaits approval. The elderly man tries to lure the bottle in again with a waving gesture of his cup. The girl pours some more.
That’s a bit much. But oh well, the customer is always right.
The old man waves again. “More,” the cup is demanding. She hesitates. She pours. The cup is filled to the brim. The man drinks deeply into the cup. He looks at the girl. He nods for more. The girl takes a step towards the next guest.
That is too much.
The wrinkly man grabs her by the arm. “MORE!” the cup is screaming. It opens its jaws wide and bites off the neck of the bottle. Blood flows everywhere. A constant stream of dark red liquid. She surrenders the bottle to the old man. But the cup drinks it all in two big gulps and it starts to screech. MOOOOREEEEE!!!
She can’t take this. Not for 11.50 an hour before taxes. She runs towards the restroom. The cup is right behind her, thrashing the stools and tables and devouring any bottles it meets in its rampant path. She slams the door and dumps down on her ass in front of it. The cup is wailing outside and she can hear customers sighing, complaining, getting their coats, and leaving. She tears off her name plate and throws it at the mirror in the far end of the restroom.
The cup calms down 15 minutes later. She walks back out. And she pours a new bottle.