It was merely a glass of wine. Someone during all of the gaiety of this celebration of Alan's return had misplaced it, setting it down and forgetting where, likely fetching another upon realization of misplacing it. It wasn't likely more than 4 ounces of wine, less than a single ounce of alcohol.
Alan had been away from the family for 3 years, had not spoken with any of his family or his old friends. He remembered the glorious taste of the wine when he first sipped the glass, the first of half a dozen. Alan was the prodigal son come home.
He remembered drinking in the sight of Amanda--beautiful Amanda, who had been his, even until he went on his 'walkabout' to find himself. Amanda, who had given herself to him on the beach one evening after the pair of them had split a bottle Alan had stolen from his parents' liquor cabinet. She seemed to still be in love with him, clinging to him as he climbed into his car to leave. He was wondering about the child seat in her car, distracted when the bicycle's lights popped up as he crested the hill. Alan's reflexes weren't the best after drinking, and he really should have waited until most of it had cleared his system. A screech, then a large oak.
A single glass of wine, red, lighter than the red that now flowed from his body. A glass as deadly as any poison to a recovering alcoholic.