I had almost lost these black gloves. I didn’t notice one evening when they fell out of my top box on to the front lawn. But they were there the next day when I left for work. Nobody had taken them. Early morning passerby must have seen the bike and recognised that the gloves were accidentally dropped. I brought them back inside. Now one of the pair is visible on the table – palm up with the thumb vacant and neatly folded over. Supplicant glove with nothing desired. Beside it, at the same visual level, the containing upper portion of a glass of red wine. The wine is only really red at the circular upper rim. The rest is dark in the same manner as the glove. They share something else ill-determined – less proximity than the contours of a null event. I have not yet reached out to the glass of wine. I have not disturbed the scene. The music has just ended. I am no longer here. There are avalanches in the distance.