You sit. The spinning stops. The noise fades. Imagine that this place you are in is the place. You visualize; at times, you add more to what you see, just so you can immerse and indulge yourself in a state of perfection and tranquility.

Here, you take that bottle — noises aside — you desire perfection. The rush is imminent. Your mind blocks off the motion, and with pinpoint focus, you target the label on that bottle. It’s this one, your mind says. You are satisfied.

You hold it. You feel the weight — the smooth surface of the glass, shiny but tamed. The liquid hits the sides; the waves are mesmerizing and captivating. You’ve been there before, but today is different.

With an urge of anticipation, you pull that cork. Your ears are already dialed in to the sound of the pop — you exhale. It’s a sound that’s familiar, yet distant, never quite the same.

Now, the cork is in the past. You’re holding the bottle with a firm, controlled grip, eyes closed. You raise the vessel to your comfortable distance to smell perfection and establish dominance over it.

You exhale more violently. The torrent of air rushes out of your lungs. You smile, open your eyes, and that perfect moment appears in front of you. Your brain is playing tricks on you — because tonight will be different. But hey, it’s irrelevant now.

With a swift motion, you pick up a glass. The weight is noticeable — solid, strong, cold, and reliable. You feel secure with it, satisfied. It will perform the job well, without a doubt.

Just slightly, you tilt the vessel toward your glass, and when the rim touches, the liquid gold pours with a violent flow of desire and aroma. You’re captivated. It brings a smile to your face, and warmth spreads through you.

You slowly set the bottle down. With another swift motion, the cork is on. You’ve divorced yourself from the bottle — it’s now an object of the past. Your eyes stay fixed on the glass. Your hand still feels the weight.

You’re ready. You’re salivating. Your mind works wonders; you already know how that first sip will taste, yet it tricks you into believing it’ll be new.

You take a deep inhale and pause. Exhale with pleasure and future romance. When the liquid hits your lips, the alcohol burns your palate, the scent overpowers your ability to breathe, and you forget everything around you.

It’s only you and the dance.

More Stories You May Like

More from Vincent Palmer