Night On The Beach

We sat on the beach that night. With my arms resting on my knees and my hands held together, I stared out at the ocean. Tonight we left it all behind, it was just me, her and the Moon. The ocean glowed black and everything else white under its gaze. She was leaning up against my left side. Her arms wrapped around mine, her head resting on my shoulder. She looked great, especially in that dress. It held her perfectly in its pale yellow embrace. Her shoulders bare and flecked with mist from the breaking waves. Her legs escaping out from under it, toes buried in the cold sand. Her long wavy hair danced gently in the breeze. She looked like she was flying and I felt like it. The ocean whispered to us as it rolled up the beach and retreated back to oblivion.

I reached down between my feet and lifted the wine bottle. Not much left. I took a sip and handed it to her. I kissed her before the bottle hit the sand. The wine always tasted better on her lips.

“We should go back soon.” She said, finally breaking the silence.

“I know.” I replied.

I turned to look at her.

“What?” She asked.

“I love the way you look in that dress. Like a daffodil growing out of the sand. An impossible daffodil. My daffodil.” She squeezed my arm.

I took another sip. “Last one is your’s, then we’ll go.”

She let go of my arm and took the bottle. I waited. I was going to steal another kiss and a taste of the wine from my favorite vineyard. In one motion, she pushed me back onto the sand and climbed on top. I sat up on my elbows, looking at her. Without breaking eye contact she raised the bottle to her lips and emptied it. It fell beside us with a thud. She grabbed my face in her hands and kissed me. She let some of the wine drip into my mouth. Some of it spilled down my lips and chin.

“Don’t waste it.” She said.

She leaned back down and kissed me again. Her tongue traced my lower lip where the wine tried to escape. I could feel her pressing her hips into me. My heart began to race and my blood began to flow.

“We should be getting back.” I said in a mild gasp. She always makes me lose my cool. I’m such a goon.

She pressed a finger to my lips and said “I gave you the chance to leave before and you hesitated. Now you have to accept the consequences of that.”

I grinned. If she’s the consequence, then I’m going to be a repeat offender.

The Wine Snob

Over the past year, I’ve begun to enjoy wine. I like red. I’ll drink white, because let’s face it, there is alcohol in it. But, given the choice, I prefer red. I like all makes, models, sizes, and shapes. I’ll drink it out of a cup, glass, cupped hands, the bottle, wax cups from the bathroom, don’t care. Now, maybe I’m a caveman when it comes to the subject, but I need not go deeper(Sometimes we just can’t ladies, its only so long). I don’t knock anyone for expanding their culture or tastes, but I do knock people out for trying to forcibly expand mine(Not really). When I walk into a liquor store, I don’t need your opinion. I scamper to the section where the wine is red and try to find a label, or name that appeals to me. Yes, I’m superficial.

Most of the time I can get away without your help. Sometimes though, just sometimes, Johnny Winesnob gets me(Nice name tag, Chip). He’ll begin to talk, offering advice, which is fine, but please don’t tell me what I shouldn’t buy. If I want to throw my money away on undrinkable swill, it’s called free will. If I pick up a bottle with an awesome name, or label don’t make a face, don’t give me that smug, disapproving look. Don’t suggest a different vintage, or offer me something from your “Employee Approved Section”. I want. what I want and it isn’t to hear about your experience with such and such wine paired with such and such food(Oh, how I hope you choke). Actually, I do have a paring question, can you tell me what wine goes best with self-loathing? When the conversation takes this turn, I usually stare. Not aggressively, or in a threatening fashion, more like a vegetable. I’ll just stare at your store issue vest, or your walkie talkie. I fantasize about looking into your eyes and saying “Clean up in Aisle 1” and dropping the bottle at our feet. Then we can talk about how the oak or smoky taste is irrelevant since the only thing it tastes like now is the floor tiles. Thanks for nothing.