If money was the root of all evil, then wine must surely be a close second.

Jasper gazed through the rosy depths of the wine glass in his hand, observing the scene beyond with quiet detachment. Wine had always mellowed him, left him with a feeling a pleasurable distance from his surroundings, as though nothing that happened would effect him at all. He remembered his girlfriend's anger at his apparent coldness when she informed him of her condition, the way she had yelled and screamed and beat her fists against him as he silently took in her news, analysed the situation, and came to a calm and logical solution.

As he viewed her prostrate form, bent slightly as its image passed through the rounded glass, he admired the beauty of the merlot's hue against what would otherwise have appeared cold and dead. Its rosy glow surrounded her like a halo.

Was it Emerson who said that the beautiful was God's handwriting? Jasper smiled and set about worshipping another glass.