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mountain wine


It wasn’t our intention. Not initially. But in the end we drank the vine dry. We started with
a glass each. Then a bottle each. Cabernet. Conversation flowed as easily as the wine poured from the neck, and we discussed cartoons and favourite travel spots, all the while inserting innuendo in the most charming, clever of ways. Or so I imagine. We moved onto seconds, drained our glasses, finally tipped the bottles upside down and captured the last few drops on our tongues. Now what? she asked, frowning dramatically as she raised her empty glass and gently knocked over one bottle with a pointed toe. We shall have to take this outside, she said. Make our own. Stamp out the grapes with our feet! She threw back her head and laughed. Her lips were plump and bruised, an exquisite purple. She stood and stumbled slightly, still giggling as she grabbed my hand and pulled me up, dragged me towards the Venetian doors leading out to the deck. We leaned against the rail, looking out at Mt Mee in the distance. The clouds were dark and heavy, the ground arid and brown, and the vineyard a sad, dry rabble of twigs. I think we’ve had all the grapes we can get, I said. Nuh-ah, she shook her head. She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me, left a bright mark on my cheek.
Moments later, she was passed out on the floor.

Find out where this Hello Sunday story happened.

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