He looked at his wine, in the new wine glass, one of four he purchased just more than an hour ago, after the cooking class with her. Also a coffee cup thrown into bag. The dream house, again in thoughts.. a kitchen like that store’s. The day reviewed, images flashing. It tired him, he sipped… The Cabernet/Syrah shake, even more active tonight. It had to be the new glass, he thought. He interacted with the soft, rich, smokey pushes into his first sense.. calmed. He forgot about the day ahead, tomorrow. Barrel tasting. True, the winery wasn’t participating, but it’d surely be busy.
No papers to grade, nothing to plan for week coming, Spring Break. But he wasn’t on break. Working, of course. No rest. Yes, on the days he had class he’d have a day to Self. But he’d be working, as normal, otherwise. But this glass, this new glass, its contents, from a bottle opened last night, freeing him.
Notes surrounded him. This new novel, teasing him like a predator right before it surged. You knew you were going to fall to its jaws, and it knew you knew, but it still taunted you. He laughed, at his characters, his scattered sheets, his hovering story. The wine was what he wanted to give all focus. His day’s word goal was in that glass, he realized, sitting in his apartment’s nook… It’s romantically dark, evasively flirtatious body only encouraged him to combat wine’s industry, not let it strip away the passion he held for certain bottles.
Empty. And the glass was atop the notebook he called “the traveler”. He’d fill it, but not yet. He wanted to just stare at it, watch the tiniest purple puddle bob back, forth as the table shook from his tempestuous types. And that wine, the marks it left, putting him into docility– a state he could use. Finally finish that cursed MS.