This is the wineglass in which red wine was served to Tycho Brahe just before he died, four hundred and more years ago. The astronomer's body was exhumed just a few years ago to try to find out how he died, but still nobody is quite sure. Rumours of extramarital intrigue.
This is the wineglass which ended up in a rubbish dump, dug up a few hundred years later, intact and shining, in a back garden where there were no worms. Things grew better in the garden after it was removed; it was washed, and put away.
This is the wineglass which makes its way through a succession of new couples' drink cabinets; it always shines, and is always someone's favourite. Afterwards, it moves on; it is thrown away, or given to a charity shop; and it repeats again.
This is the wineglass which turns everything poured into it into some kind of poison, slow-acting or fast-acting as it wishes. It leaves behind it a trail of grieving, arrests and the lonely. It decides what happens; and there is no reason for what it chooses.
This is the wineglass that will only accept red wine.