Harvest Wine

She sticks her straw in a tumbler with red wine and slurps out the red dregs, then sticks her straw in a wineglass with something white and slurps out the white dregs. She’d be hard-pressed to say at this stage what the wines are, but she can still tell that the red tastes too acidic and the white moscato-ey. The golden mean of drunk: out of command some, yet still in command some. Limber enough to finish off other people’s abandoned drinks yet upright enough not to disgorge them back into the world in a lush imperial fountain of tears, snot and sick. Waving her green plastic proboscis over the table, she divines another source: a bottle of local vino, artisanally brewed of apples and autumnal crud.
“You are too much! You are too fucking much!” He laughs; he is draped over the chair loosely, arm dangling. He readjusts his position in frame-by-frame movement, the stop motion animation of inebriation: she can see his muscles are thinking poorly.
“I am blurring the lines between me proper and the world proper, can’t you see?” she says. “I am able to drink from other people’s glasses and no one is stopping me; that means that other people’s glasses are now my glasses and the world is not mad at me. It’s a first step. Blurred lines, baby.” She laughs too. The proboscis does not reach into the bottom third of the bottle. She dumps the harvest wine into the empty tumbler and the wine fills it to the brim.
“Ugh! It’s like I am eating a…a what-do-you-call them? Dammit, I know the word! Those candles, those smelly candles, very expensive, crap, what’s the word? The really scented ones. They are like 25 bucks. It’s like I am eating one of them.” She diligently drinks the apple stuff.
He is looking at her a bit cross-eyed.
“Want some?”
He reaches out for the tumbler.
“Open up, I’ll pour it into your mouth.”
“Tha’s jus’ crazy.”
“Come one, I’ll pour it into your mouth and it will open your magic pores and I will be able to tell your future.”
“From my pores?”
“Pores will help. What I’m really gonna do is I am going to think circles around you, really-really fast – I bet you didn’t know I can think circles around you. I am, like, here” – she chops the air above her head with her palm – “and you are, like, here!” – she waves her hand around her waist – “But it’s okay,” – and she drinks some more from the apple tumbler.
“But I want to be, like, here!” He grabs at her crotch with his hand. She can tell he is not actually enthusiastic about her crotch; he looks mildly nauseous.
“That’s what you always do. Your bandwidth is only, like…” She waves her hand in circular motion in front of his face. ‘My circles are big and very fast, and very wide, wide ribbons. I am like: “Hey, I love you, Merry Christmas, have you seen this movie, you are like a dog, hope you dressed warmly today, I hope you never die – and you are like, “I have a penis to declare.”
“Well, I do. Have one. I do have it.”
He rises from the chair only to sit back down after three seconds of ass airborne.
She turns to the long kitchen counter covered in party debris and finds a shot glass half-filled with Amaretto.
He says: “Didn’t you have enough? You are going to get sick. Or get something weird from the saliva in there, like herpes or something.”
“I am going to get sick. I am going to get sick and die. I am going to go sit on the window ledge and then fall off and oops! – then die. What about you?”
“Jeez. I don’t know if I’m gonna die. Don’t sit on the window ledge.”
“I just said I hope you don’t die, didn’t you listen? How did you miss it? How do you miss all of it? Not only are my ribbons wider, but they are perforated with memories, mini-memories, large memories, and you – never mind.”
In her ears tide is beating against the white cliffs of Dover.
She is going to get sick.

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