Sip one of the Syrah. He was off, with recommenced vision. Surprisingly, much of this new skip he accredited to work. He thought himself a slight pull above mediocrity when it came to selling wine. He didn’t know what else to do with this, than siphon it about the page’s streets. Did he want to open a wine bar, wine shop with bar element, area? He just didn’t know. He’d enjoy this tide, the Syrah’s stride, by the moment abide. Sipping again, he noticed a calm pace with the fruit and back-palate spice. And this Syrah didn’t have the overtly gaminess he encountered with recent interpretations, both sides of the mountain.
At today’s winery meeting, Mike traced all surrounding, transferred each particle, flavor, frame into his consciousness corner. He sat there, in his home office, able to remember everything from the almost intimidatingly radiant mountains to the layout of the tasting Room, the patio area, each hint and note of every wine tasted, to the yellow jackets encircling, eventually infringing upon, the delightful cheeses, flower-shaped crackers. He remembered sitting there, thinking about wine he’d like to make, soon. And, how he may produce this harvest with his friend. He wanted bottles of his own, see pleased palates about a Room. His own. Bottles, Room.
And there it was, the meat quality. It wasn’t loud. More so, cautiously present. Mike couldn’t believe that it was only $9.99. $10.84, past-the-door. Mike basked, “Score.” He listened to beats that put him back in the Wine Bar. What would he call it? Would he pour HIS wine, WINES, there? Undoubtedly. With a more extended weekend in front, Mike began his night’s writing. He leapt with the word “Purview.” Just that word. Then, paused. Another sip. He looked at the screen, only to listen to his playlist, daydream. This was his real “job.” He, the proprietor, supervisor, CEO, VP, GM, King, Emperor, Head Chef, Dean, Principal. He forgot to clock in. Sin! He laughed, thinking of how one of the wineries at which he pours, infrequently at best, throws such a volcanic fit if someone isn’t clocked out a full 30 minutes for lunch. To him, a lunch is more than 30 minutes, anyway. And, if he’s back sooner, to be behind the bar, pouring, WORKING, wasn’t that commendable? This deconstruction, wasteful. He had music to sip, wine to listen to. Fanciful night, following a fluid day, he thought, would write, but the wine and music were too pleasing, this parallel. Staring at the Syrah, he strayed.
With his pen.