“DON’T CRY OVER SPILLED WINE” by Sharon A Henson

Bring tray of used glasses to sink. Be intercepted by sister.

“Wait, wait, wait. Who—is—that?”

“A guest.”

“He’s dreadfully handsome.”

For you, anything male, young, and two-legged is dreadfully handsome. “Forget it.”

“What? You want him for yourself? You’re too young! He’s closer to my age than yours!”

“Nah, nothing like that.” Pour unfinished cups of wine into the sink and run the faucet to rinse away the bloody liquid.

“Well?”

Soap the glasses.

“Well?”

“Well. He’s not ugly, if you insist. He has charming manners. He also happens to have a pair of the dreamiest hazel eyes.”

“Oh, I know!”

“Ain’t happening.”

“No! No, you can’t say that! Shut up, are you crazy? This is destiny. Love at first sight. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on him. He—is—something—else. Not you, not dad, not Eric, not anyone is going to be able to keep me away from him. I saw it in his eyes, too. This familiarity. Like he knows me a hundred years. Like we’ve been soulmates in another life.”

“Nope.”

“His lips! Did you see the sensual movements of those lips! My God, I’m going to die right now!”

Finish rinsing the glasses and dry them. Place them safely in the cabinet before speaking. “Also happens to be our cousin.”

“What?”

“A hundred years, huh?”

“Sneak! Fraud! Taunt”—a drove of other words that are best left imagined—“As if you couldn’t tell me that before I started drooling about him!”

Exit kitchen immediately. Call consolingly over shoulder. “Distant cousin…”

“Angreek87″