Cracking it open on the sharp linoleum edge of the counter; you held it over the mixing bowl and pried the halves apart using only your blue painted nails as fulcrum.
 I expected the quick dollop and a swift beating. Instead, what filled the bowl was a gray dust that was reminiscent of when we saw the Tibetan sweeping up the mandala.
 You poured three shots of wine and a teaspoon of sugar in the bowl and mixed it for 16 millennial cycles, poured some in one of the broken shells and sipped it noisily.
 When your lips touched the makeshift goblet I felt complete. 
 When you looked at me and wiped the errant drop of wine from your chin with your delicate finger and washed it in the cold river.I was.