Ding! The sliver of white and clear keratin that was my fingernail made contact with the Mason jar as I swung my arms at my sides. The wide-mouthed 450 milliliter glass jar took flight, aborting its comfortable spot in my husband’s hand. 50 milliliters of amber fluid was ejected from the jar, making contact with our skin. The cold droplets trickled down our bare legs. Neither of us could react soon enough.  We watched, mesmerized, as the glass receptacle swirled up, then down, catching the sun’s rays in its wake, creating an impromptu, yet dazzling art show. Diiiing, cwuuusshh, tiiinnggssshh! Countless pieces of glass – from one – laid scattered on the hot sidewalk, looking like silver glitter against beige construction paper. A few square ice cubes were intermingled and melting quickly. The air smelled of sweet vanilla and a touch of caramel. All this took place under a hot afternoon sun and beneath the cheery pink blooms of crepe myrtles. We stopped walking. My husband scooped up the glass as best he could. I stood and watched, genuinely sorry for the loss of his beloved glass of bourbon.