Mike could taste the difference in this ’08 from the one he usually himself poured. He read through his Literary Lunch. Dozens of typos, spelling and grammatical. He loved it. So raw, Human. So wine. Yes it could describe, modify. As word, concept. Kelly wasn’t coming over tonight, as she had to finish a line of glasses she’d been working on for over a week. He thought of what traveled past her perceptive range when brush dancing; That’s how he saw her hand move, about transparent sip surfaces. Her convivial arm extended to canvases eager. He knew she listened to music, but what?
Trying to refocus on his Lunch’s pages, he returned to the ’08. Darker, gamier than others he’d splashed. Not as much dark fruit, mid-palate, as he’d like. His wouldn’t taste like this, he knew. So he sipped, enjoyed the half-fruits of his Literary Lunch’s Love Labor. There was also a floral or perfume pop on the back, finish. Too much, he thought.
Would she call? Probably not. He kept staring at his phone, waiting for a random text, one seeing what he was up to. But that was selfish, he knew. How centered in his self to think she could be drawn distant from her passion by thoughts of him. So he wrote. Wrote. Sipped. Listened to his Wine Bar beats, imagined his tasting Room, pouring his SB, Syrah, Alexander Valley/Sonoma Valley Cabernet for guests. He didn’t know if he’d have a wine club. Maybe he could design some allocation tier system, or something. Too complicated already, he thought. “Just enjoy the thought, idea, of making wine,” he wrote.
Before taking his final sip, not able to believe the mediocre Rhone once situated in his stemless now swam in his circulation like a freed fish, Mike wrote out what he thought was a business plan, for him as a Self-published writer. “One-man-show winemakers had to do this, right?” he thought. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe they just hopped from cliff’s edge. Again, he found himSelf at the apocryphal precipice of a leap. Fruitfully analogous: winemakers, writer. He had to do it now, if ever. Write. Make wine. Write about making wine. That, Equilibrium. Kelly did it, he resolved, and so should he. But what would he sell? The first Bottled Journal, once it was at fruition. He would have another Literary Lunch tomorrow. And write all weekend, as he had the entire day off from his friends winery, Sunday. He wanted to feel the way Kelly did--free, consistently propelled to create, nervously persistent, smiling. Peace. AUTONOMY.
Mike fell into spoken word, with another glass. He ignored the bottled notes in his glass. His rhymes made no sense, which made them so appealing, made him want to keep reading them, writing more. He tested himSelf with how odd he could arrange rimed lines. “Syncopation in notation, innovation. My station is a brazen wine basin...” He thought about what it meant to be a true Artist. He thought, “Gamble...Chance...Leap. Delicious Disarray...” There it was again, he thought. That word, wish. He would. He was. Sip. Scribble. To New Now’s.