You order a Petite Sirah, and as the wine flows into the spacious glass, it splashes and breathes and comes alive. Across the bar, you notice a woman in her late thirties, raven hair falling over focused, hazel eyes, clad in a tight, knee-length, black silk dress. She looks at you confidently with just a hint of a smile hiding in her burgundy lips; it's clear that she's not shy and she knows what she wants. You move towards her, though you still sense a distance that does not close.
As you begin to interact, you are instantly drawn in, feeling that there is more to learn, more to taste, to experience. Without thinking, you pull her towards you and kiss her thirstily. She kisses back, but as your mouths explore one another, she feels rough and unfinished. Your senses are confused; you savor the vanilla, the cherry, the dark fruit you taste that makes you want more. But you cannot ignore the tartness that clings to your cheeks and tongue, tannic and abrasive, causing you to pull back.
As soon as you break away, you find yourself wanting to start again, to regain that first instant of bliss, of berries and spice that nearly gave you goosebumps. But you stop yourself, remembering how the softness gave away to dryness, the fireworks fizzled to something lackluster. Let down, you realize that the foreplay was much sexier than the finish, and while this was fun and not at all regrettable, the moment has passed and it's time to move along.
In love and in wine we find that, sometimes, it's all about the chase.
jsquared
