The poet’s name, which does not matter that much to the narrative, other than to spice it up a bit, was Tingsted Taki-Smith. Her name certainly did not affect the trajectory of the cocktail glass, which bounced off her forehead, sending its contents straight up into the air, with the glass itself heading off at a ninety degree angle, parallel to the floor for a second or so. But then it hit, making a most satisfactory shattering sound, causing all conversation in that region of the party to cease.
