Eau de Malbec

I was a bit too old for my lovely companion. We sat at a small table, our knees touching, as she opened a bottle of wine left at her home by a sommelier. I did not yet suspect that they were lovers. Her gleaming obsidian hair intoxicated me as she impatiently poured without airing. We raised glasses and drank. The gorgeous lashes lowered as her tongue darted to savor the crimson on her full lips.

Initial tartness gave way to the distinct sweet of slightly overripe grapes, fresh as tears, grown at the arid root of the Andes. I saw the dust, scorched that afternoon, under yellowing vines as late Summer’s fruit faded into peppery hints of waxy, translucent pink curves at sunset, caressed by cobwebs. Heat rose in my throat and faded like a spent candle.

I opened my eyes. A knowing smile flitted as she contemplated my undoing, and truly, most of my prosperity would soon be gone, but let no one say she left me with nothing.

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Michael Potter works in IT and lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two cats.