Thursday, October 14, 2010

Louis Jadot, 2009 Beaujolais

She nimbly plucked two glasses of Beaujolais from the silver tray on the hallway table, giggling over her shoulder at the older boy behind her. As she lead him up the stairs towards her room, she took a gulp from one of the glasses, licking her full, scarlet lips. Her ringlets of strawberry blond hair bounced daintily as she ascended the stairs quickly, almost on tiptoe. When she reached her bedroom door, she craned her neck one last time and, seeing no one, pulled the boy into her room.

They had met at the fair the night before; they shared a paper cone of truffle Parmesan fries and a fleeting, passionate kiss. She tasted of vanilla and smelled faintly of smoke from the lone cigarette she had cagily snuck from her mother's case earlier in the day. But when she had left abruptly, he didn't understand why, and he was left wanting to taste her again. Touching his fingers to his lips he had strained to recall the exact memory of her scent, her taste; but it was already gone. He made her promise to see him the next day and she had used the party as a distraction to get him inside, past her parents, and upstairs to her bedroom.

The impeccable white walls, bed, and furniture of her room were offset by the verdant, vibrant energy that was exuded by the two bodies standing inches apart beside the window. The late afternoon sun spilled into the room and hit her soft curls delicately, momentarily betraying her innocence and youth. Unable to contain herself, she threw herself toward him, hurriedly kissing his lips, eyes shut expectantly.

She tasted of ripe fruit and his tongue searched deeper to know her, but she kept her lips tight as he pulled her into him. He could feel her inexperience, her touch slightly rough and unfinished, as he strove to take more from their embrace. His mouth yearned to taste her deeply, but was frustrated by the impasse. He pulled away and, once again, touched his fingers to his lips. Her essence just barely clung to his tongue, softly brushed against the inside of his cheeks, but it didn't last.

The romantic in him wanted to try again to achieve that perfect, delicious kiss, to drink one another in ravenously and let bliss wash over them; but she sipped from her glass and swirled its contents nervously, trying to use it as a means to distract him from moving so fast. Undeterred, he deftly set his own long-stemmed glass on her spotless white nightstand, the wine still and calm in its tear-shape as he slid it onto the finished wood surface. He moved forward and her calves hit the edge of the bed, stopping her retreat and allowing him another gulp from her lips. This time he pushed forward with gentle and tentative firmness, expecting her to open up and give in to what he hoped would be something decadent and superb.

But when their union subsided, he still found himself wanting more. Her kiss lacked depth, and perhaps she did too. It was almost tragic, but it seemed she was still just a girl. Her mind was too small, her years too few; tight; frankly, a bit shallow; and simply too young to give herself to anyone. He suddenly recognized this and pulled back, mild disillusionment becoming general disinterest. He cradled her soft jawline in his hand and looked at her with affection, smiling faintly.

And then he turned to leave without another word. She was too dumbfounded to even protest, and then too heartbroken to do anything else. She shakily set her glass down beside his and plopped backwards onto her bed. Out the window she could see him walking into the golden glint of almost sunset, the autumn leaves eventually obscuring her view and blotting him out for good.

She sighed deeply, and a fat teardrop rolled down her cheek, catching the sunlight just so. She reached for one of the teardrops at her side and raised it to her mouth, tilting its stem way back and guzzling the burgundy liquid as it caught the sun's fading rays at the very moment it began to set.

jsquared

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