The first sip of a good Bordeaux tastes like a low-light evening. It is warm and smoky, with a firm-soft texture of an upholstered sofa in the background, the weight of the lamp, and the indirect yellow light. It's a film noir in green-neon-vertigo-Hitchcock. The wine's aroma and the clothes' texture are complementary as if they were made to be experienced together. As you bring the glass closer to your lips for the second sip, you can feel the softness of my palms against the glass and the slight tension of my fingers as they grip the stem. The taste of the wine is bitter-sweet, with a metallic hint that lingers on my tongue. It's yours to taste. Close your eyes and listen to my voice as it softly whispers in your ear, like the gentle, almond-like breath of a calm breeze. I gaze into your pupils, smiling slowly and delicately, drawing your attention (and mouth) towards me. I see your fingerprints fluttering nervously, but the hormonal tannins in the wine are in convulsion and don't seem to find me.
The third sip unbuttons your coat, messes up your hair, and unzips your pants; my fingers run through your hair, over your glass, revealing you awkwardly, and you pretend to smile. You swallow it as if my skin were liquid.
You have me in the palm of your own hand.
Pretend the words don't make sense anymore, hide the smile in the motives, undo the tie, sit on a soft, delicate spot like I want to. Pretend it's velvet, my skin is within your reach, and I'm a delicate shell that opens slowly and gently before your eyes. Don't grip anything. Caress your imagination and drink the fourth sip because I already took you by the hand and left you with nothing else to write...
