Mike thought about the Cab Franc he sipped, how phantasmagorically expansive it was on palate. He knew that a winemaker would dismiss such a reflection. He didn’t care. They didn’t see things the way he did, as a writer. They, simplistic, formulaic.
“So do you like it?” Kelly asked.
“Yeah. I do. It’s different. How about you?”
“It’s charcoal-y, really heavy, and dark. I think we have one of these on the menu at the restaurant,” she said, looking at the color in the glass.
“Do you ever get wine snobs at a table?”
“Oh yeah, lots. I think they’re funny.” She looks at Mike, not sure what he’s processing in his reflect. “What?”
“Nothing.” Mike sipped, knowing she noticed. What would he do, with this unexpected unfold? He watched her look around, uneasy. He felt horrible, useless.
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