micro memoir | The Metaphor of Wine
The longer wine sits in the cellar, the tastier it gets. It’s the same with memories. Only people store wine in an organized and careful manner, but they rarely do so with memories. So, each bottle opens up a different kind of drunkenness.
We knew there’d be wine at the benefit evening. As everyone serious carried out decent conversations, Aand I counted how many horses we could spot in the house decor, in the painting and sculpture collection. 19 years old, and we were still playing the hidden object game. (That’s quite the dream, isn’t it? To have played a game as children and still play it as adults in real life? To know a childhood game can take place in the real world?)
His black shirt met my grey sweater on the couch. Heat — from the living room heater, from his biceps, from my forest-and-thunderstorm of a heart — melted through my sweater, through my blood, setting something on fire. Arden, the scent of wine in the air whispered in Spanish, burn. Both he and the wine tempted me; I couldn’t say which did it more. Yet, I didn’t give in until the end. Standing in the cellar of an alluring mistake, I let it go. Back on the couch, he sipped on wine with both provoking flamboyance and sexy elegance, and I watched him with hesitation, with envy, wavering, watering, the same way I watched our possibility of a romantic relationship. If there was any horsing around that evening among the paintings and sculptures, there was that.