without wine, my table would have only small slices of bread and small slices of cheese. without wine, my table would have only small slices of truth.
Bring me wine friend, and ill tell you things i know. bring me wine and let's sit on an evening where nothing is happening, on my old soft couch looking out on the mid-section of a tree. Bring me wine and we'll swirl it around in our glasses, we'll let our noses rest on the rim and feel the vapours on our eyes. We'll sit and let ideas come and go,
sit and...
It was the leaded glass crystal, fluted sides, a stem as delicate as a lily. She filled it halfway, she didn't want to be greedy.
"Is that all you're having?" Her mother had just poured her glass up to the rim and was now walking awkwardly across the room, trying not to spill it.
"I like the way it looks in the glass."
Her mother sat down on the couch and slurped. "That's why I like these glasses. They look good no matter what you put in them."
She paused behind the couch, behind her mother, and took a sip....
Wine. The worst nights always began with wine. We never stopped to put two and two together. Mornings after, needing to shave our tongues and send our stomachs through the car wash.
No matter how clean the apartment had been the night before, once the cork was pulled, and the wine dribbled down our chins, the dishes would pile up on the counter. The hamper and washing machine would explode, spewing filthy clothes all over the floor. Ashtrays would overflow, sending half-smoked butts and burnt filters flowing away like lava from a volcano.
We'd hold our heads betwen both hands...
Misaki was never a big drinker. Her mother knew this, her father suspected it, and her friends weren't either, so they knew as well. But when Misaki took a sip of Erika's white wine, so cold and crisp and clean on that sticky summer day, something inside of her seemed to clamor for more. Before she knew it she was on her third glass, and everything seemed to be shimmering through a smudged lens. Her mother, giggling, and just as drunk herself, took the glass away from her and proceeded to tell her a long story about Misaki's grandfather and...
Monkey banged into the table leg. The box hesitantly tipped over, shortening its shadow. Small waves of wine sieved through the table cloth.
"That fucking dog."
We laughed, watching our evening sink into the carpet.
We were too high to be drinking anyway.
Wine. The God of the Sublime. Dionysian times cured the ill humored people by taking grapes, fermenting them, turning it all into a drinkable solution that would cure terrible moments in a life by twisting them slowly away with each sip of this smooth purple pulp.
I felt the first effects of wine when my friends and I would buy a cheap bottle of Yellow Tail, pop off the cork and take slow swigs as if this was our solution to boredom, happiness, sadness, and just life in general. We sipped as if wine was our blood, our fuel, our...