The Bottle Cap

By Angela J. Maher

Trisha pushed the bottle cap back and forth with the tip of her index finger. The rasp of it against the laminated tabletop disturbed the somnolent peace of the calm, warm day. The bottle itself was gone. She’d looked for it, all day. Hazy spectres danced in her memory of a laughing face, and someone dancing. No doubt there had been singing too. The echoes of a drunken night of frivolity refused to form clear pictures in her mind, but were undeniable in their existence. She’d always thought her drinking companion was imaginary, but today the missing bottle told another story.