Mike sipped the Claret. Humorously chipped away at his book effort. He thought about how he could make tomorrow’s lecture exciting. For himself, mostly. He needed contrast, turbulence. He needed his life to be as flavorful and complex as the blend before him. The distraction would stop. Tonight, he thought. Only steps forward. None astern.
Kelly would pull him to the vessel’s tip. How? He didn’t know.
“What do you want to know?” she asked. “What exactly are you trying to build?”
“A straight line, of some kind. You know?” Mike said. He couldn’t believe his scene.
“No. And, why would you want that? A straight line? Sounds flavorless.” she said, stretching her arms to the sides, behind her, allowing a discrete yawn to escape her nucleus. Mike, still, saw more than pages. He saw invitation, elation, delectation. All was adjoined, like the Bordeaux, but more so. He sipped. Sipped...
“You need to understand something. This, right now, this Now, won’t be forever. Move. Quicker,” she said, sipping her Chardonnay. “Do you like Chardonnay? Do you drink it?”
“Yeah. Sometimes. I get tired of reds. I get tired of writing too, sometimes.”
“Really? You get tired of writing? What else would you envision yourself doing?”
“I think...something different. Something out of character.”
Mike looked at the carpet, hoping it would provide dialogue, an amusing response. He was an idiot. His self-assessment. His fold, old. Change: beneficial, needed. “Maybe an adventure. Maybe I could make my own wine, my own blend.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“I don’t know. All I can think about lately is Paris,” Mike said, feeling joyous, and ill.
“Paris? You should go. We should go. Together.”
This was something Mike hoped for, but never imagined his ears would savor. “Yes. Yes. We should. Now. But how do we get there?” Mike asked. He hoped she didn’t have a formula. The shades perforated his stability. If he had any. Time for this scribe to retire, he thought.