Summer’s Point of View
Mrs. Turner placed the bottle of vino on the polished marble bar counter with a thud. The small sound echoed in the dimly lit room. She poured a generous amount of the ruby-red liquid into her glass, and the sweet aroma of grapes and oak filled the air. She stirred the wine with her index finger while her movements were slow, lost in thought. Suddenly, she lifted the glass to her lips and downed it in a single gulp, her throat contracting as the liquid slid down. She locked eyes with me, but the emotions she had displayed earlier had disappeared, leaving a blank expression on her face.
“You know, Summer,” she started, her voice raspy and laced with emotion. “I still remember how I felt years ago when I first met you. I was thrilled at the prospect of your parents a
