And so she, my character, Kelly: more rapidly rapturous, capturing my balance like chased casks. A novel, us away. Where, not important. She’s forcing me to write mySelf away to dazes, theatrically imagist hazes. If she were to read this, she wouldn’t know what she’s reading. Me, sick author, with ink, a flexing blend.
“I think this is one of the better Shiraz bottles I’ve had. But it’s been a while,” Kelly said, nosing the contents carefully, as if to be sure in her stance.
“Since you’ve had a Syrah?” Mike said, paralleling her progress, raising bowl to sensitive sense.
“Syrah, or Shiraz?”
“Same thing. Kind of.”
“That’s what someone at the restaurant told me, but I thought he was just showing off, trying to sound smart. Do people in the wine industry ever do that?” She sipped, eyes still at his. He watched her, like there were numbers in each physical shift. He wanted this equation to stay unsolved, as it was too pleasurably piquing. She.
“Often, actually.”
“We should go into business together, open a restaurant. A wine-themed restaurant. Do you mind if I have a little more? Or should I leave, I know you have to get up early-”
“Honestly, please, stay. I’m not interested in my obligations right now. Let’s both have a glass. And, yes, I would love to have my own place one day. But not a restaurant. A wine bar. And I need to get started if I’m going to ever do that. I’m...”
“What?
“Getting old,” Mike said, throwing the surviving half-ounce into his place, before setting more for Kelly’s glass, his. Kelly laughed, he listened. Spectator, he felt, as her lips stratospherically swooped. He’d never tire of that grin.
“You’re funny. No, you’re crazy,” she said. “Here,” raising her glass, “Cheers...”
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