Your knowledge of wine is beyond impeccable. Strangers stop you in the street to thank you for your choices of victuals, as they point out that it inspires them; and of these, none so brilliant is your pairing of exactly and precisely the appropriate libation.
But sometimes, the person you bring home to dine upon just isn’t what you’d hoped. They seemed so sweet, so interesting; but when you actually get them to accept your hand-engraved note, they turn out to be definitively of the hoi polloi.
There you are wrestling at the day-hung roast partridges in puff pastry and rinsed in savory spices? That’s nothing to how she’s twisting the English language into swirling pufferies of pure unspeakable abomination. What DID you see in her, anyway?
Oh, sure, she’s plainly trying to lure you into sleep with a steady stream of semi-useful trivialities so she can axe and consume you; that’s part of what attracted you to her in the first place. This will not work; you find everything about her annoying, and you worry this will be reflected in her flavor. Too late to worry.
You go down into the basement. She notices, but clearly decided not to slam the door, which is most heavy, figuring correctly that you might have a key. You do. It doesn’t work, but that’s another tale.
You come up. The bottles glint in your hand.
Ripple. And MD-2020.
You look at the carving knife in her own hand.
“Share?” you ask.
_______________
Comments are closed.