The hallway smells like hot stone and melting tarmac. Somewhere down the corridor, a fan hums like it’s given up trying to cool anything. You’re pressed to the wall, glass in hand, the stem already slick from your palm.
The wine hits with ripe raspberry, wild strawberry, a lick of cracked pepper — heat-stained fruit that feels like it’s been sitting in the sun, waiting for you. Then the air shifts. Muffled voices through the thin wall. A laugh. A sound that could be a moan.
You sip again. The acid flashes like lightning in your jaw, and the tannins hum low, the kind you feel in your ribs. The room sways — maybe from the heat, maybe from the sound of someone else coming undone just a few feet away.
You finish the glass before they finish.
Pair with charcuterie you didn’t pay for, cold noodles eaten standing up, or whatever’s left in the fridge when you can’t stop replaying the sounds through that wall.
