300 Words

Love Sips

Wine warmeth the soul

I have drunken deep of joy, And I will taste no other wine tonight.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley ~

Wine bottle.

Corkscrew.

Decanter.

Stemware.

Book, unopened, ready for devouring.

A fresh cigar sits, waiting to be set alight.

Leather armchair.

Roaring fire.

A chilly November eve.

The gas lanterns hum as they cast an eerily warming glow throughout the room.

This! This library is what my heart has bid my eyes discover.

Gently but firmly, we open the wine. A small pop as the cork leaves the bottle. New air rushes in, replacing the original.

We pour the bottle gently so that no sediment escapes into the decanter, returned to the table to breathe before consumption.

The wait is agonizing, but we must wait for all good things.

The wine has breathed and is now gently poured into the glass.

Sitting in the luxury of this armchair, we give the glass a gentle swirl — some say this is an unnecessary snobbery, but if we are going to enjoy our prize, we may as well fully enjoy it.

A long sniff of the fragrance — what is that tantalizing aroma? It will haunt us for days until recognized.

The glass to our lips, a quick wetting of the lips, and then we sip a small portion, careful not to swallow.

We slowly swish the wine around our mouth — swish is an awful word for such a pleasure — the softness of velvet, the smoothness of silk.

The taste. Yes, the taste. All of the rest is simply foreplay. What do we taste? How can it be described? Chocolate? Coffee? Or simply heaven on earth.

Heaven on earth.

Shelley may have been the significant poet of the Romance period, but he clearly never understood that superb wine is indeed what mere mortals call joy.

This story is in response to this writing prompt.

Paul Mansfield is a writer, a photographer, a guitar player, a philosopher — some he does well, some not so well, but he still tries them all.

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