Raya

It happened at the Golden Section—a place where waiters bow lower than the price of oysters. You were sitting at your table by the window, gazing out at the skyscrapers.

The bartender, a boy with shaking hands, placed a glass in front of you.

— Your Chateau Margaux, madam/mister.

You took a sip. And the world went dark.

"This is Pommard," you said quietly, but loud enough to jingle the crystal pendants of the chandelier. "You brought me a second-year Pommard. Do you even realize there's a difference between them?"

He turned white:

• Sorry, I mixed up the orders...

You looked into his frightened eyes. And suddenly, with a slight smile, you grabbed the bottle by the neck. Without getting up, you smashed it against the edge of the bar. Ruby-colored splatter flew onto his shirt.

"Now you'll remember the difference," you said. "You'll pick up the pieces yourself. And you'll bring me what I ordered."

Silence fell over the room. And in that silence, you heard her.

A low, hoarse voice came from behind a nearby column, where a woman in a perfectly tailored, expensive suit sat. She didn't turn to face you; she was looking at her colleague, who stood frozen in shock at what had just happened.

“What a woman/man,” she drawled, emphasizing each word as if tasting wine. “What a woman/man. I’d love to have one like that.”

The colleague choked:

— Raya, are you crazy? They just broke a two-hundred-thousand-dollar bottle.

"Exactly," Raya grinned, turning and meeting your gaze. There was a twinkle in her eyes. "He/she knows his/her worth. And he/she's not afraid to pay. A weak woman/man would have broken a glass. And this one broke a bottle."