The sun rises from the black depths of the ocean and alights on the fragile rim of my wine cup. It is white wine from Italy alive with the tang of midnight and the sweetness of rosemary.
Saltwater bursts and mists across my horizon face as I imagine the olive-green hills of Tuscany roiling with buried gold and fading laughter. I smell the woodsmoke. I smell the fish caramelizing over with garlic and lemon. I smell the cigars. I smell the ice poured over with whiskey and black cherry.
The ballroom bell reverberates off the low-hanging sky. The piano sends out its hollow invitation to dance. I know the fragility of this ship. I know its destiny. I feel it in the oak and hear it in the ocean. The ocean calls louder than the piano.
The ship is following the white star line. My feet are following the white star line. The wine in my cup turned sweet under the white star line. We are all following the white star line.
In Tuscany, the white star line streaks bold overhead and dips down into the vineyard. On the Atlantic, the white star line dips down into the ocean and we will all follow our destinies to meet it on the coral seabed where at last the wine cup will stand empty.