Seeing the unfamiliar. A hotel Room. Me, writing, overlooking streets kissed by moon. Far from here, let’s be clear. Sipping this Sauvignon Blanc, I see sea, other terrain for me. Just as people from out of state visit the valley, I long to stride away from my state, on hills, in unfamiliar valleys. Had a fascination today while in the tasting Room, sipping a bit of this very Sauv Blanc, actually, of running on Spanish beaches. Shortly after, to my hotel Room, overlooking those same sands, sipping some crisp Spanish white wine type. Just want to be in the unfamiliar. This St. Francis Sauvignon Blanc, its tropical notes, these new pictures in the camera, tell, PLEAD, me to flee. For sakes of wine writing, poetry. I’ll write my way there. To escape. No more constriction. Wine shuns shackle. Wine writing endorses whimsicality, such a Me. See Self, now, with these crisp notes in glass, to Greece, Southern France. Anywhere but regularity. I blame it on, THANK, wine. It wants to align itSelf with written lines. My books.
Mike enjoyed the raised thermal of his office. Did it help the writing? Not really. But the chilled SB certainly did. Back to working, come morrow’s unrelenting morrow. Not for much longer, Mike hoped. With his book almost done, he leaned, oppositely.
“Are you calling in sick tomorrow?” Kelly asked.
“No. What made you think that?” Mike said, setting his glass down by the printer, by his desk’s corner, only to pick it back up to trump his pivoting thirst.
“You look like you could use a day off,” Kelly mirrored, settling onto his couch.
“Really? No, I need a vacation. Want to go somewhere random.”
“Me too. You know what happened at the restaurant tonight?”
“What? That manager hassling you about tipping out and napkin placement, again?”
“No, he got fired. He was reported for sexual harassment, or something like that. And they want me to take his place.”
Mike couldn’t tell if she was excited, humbled, scared, what. “So? What do you think?” Mike waited for reaction, response. He sipped, knowing it could be a while. He had not that. He’d flee. Hopefully with her. Soon. Was this some superlative cosmic invite, warranting intrinsically enlightening impulsivity?