I lost perspective inside a glass where light specked the rim and stem.
In the grasp of an elixir’s fume, heady visions blurred a memory stream rolling the former incarnations of ourselves above the candle beneath the rose: younger hands,  one soft elastic skinned balmy palm cupping a glass while the other two-finger rubbed a furrowed brow far less ravaged with ravines and splotches. 
We were four then, you, me and the girls, sitting tensely at the table, your anxiety spewing noxious gases until we began to dance a lovely quadrille atop the table.
No, but that couldn’t be true.
These ghosts danced smeared putty-stretched hug-tight to the glass’ girth.
Passing cars flashed illuminated dusty rays sprayed across the windows outside, inflicting tenderness and wince.
Accidental brush of your thin, gruff finger tips across mine startled us both awake, forcibly focusing my lenses to the doubly reflected salt and pepper shakers, standing table top like four drunken rooks bent and leaning on a checker-less board,
While we two dined alone, each lost in enclosed grapey reverie, the candle light flickered the final scene ere the first course’s arrival:
Two of us, illusions backlit against scattered chronometric flares melting us buttered like toast and figs, foie gras oily on a tongue awash in Muscat, scalloped leeks across cellular cerebral connections as numerous as galaxy stars.
“Let me see that label,” I commanded.
“It’s a 2006 Pomerol,” he offered, “a very good year and it has a pleasant nose” and then we once again alit on common ground.