It was in the corner of the living room. Which was called a parlor, here in this part of the country. I stood in front of what I later found out was a corner curio cabinet. I was familiar with these pieces. And, yes, each time I’d seen one, it happened to be in a corner. It was built for that position of a room, I assumed as I studied through the thick, piece of bulging glass, half expecting to find more glass inside–a glass menagerie as I approached. And, in a way, it was. I saw tiny bottles of liquor, like little families perched on the three glass levels. Liqueurs. Vodkas mainly. Of all brands. Brands I’d known and tasted.

The person who had pointed out the corner curio was no longer in the room as they’d gone to the foyer, to take a phone call. It took this opportunity to open the curio. Because I was curious. I unscrewed one bottle; it gave easily, revealedits emptiness. So I tried another one and another. Same thing.

“They’re all empty.” I told my host as he walked back into the room. “Yes,” he said, with a small smile. “But they were all once full.”