“I only opened it to cook,” I say, stirring my third glass with a breadstick. “Just a splash for the risotto. You understand.”
They don’t. Susan’s crying. Gianni’s chewing on a cork and muttering about mouthfeel.
“It was Strunz,” I add. Everyone groans. The group facilitator drops his clipboard. “Goddammit, Maria.”
I describe it in a hush: golden haze, like late afternoon shame. Dried mango, orange peel, crushed herbs. Textured in a way that makes you clench and not know why. It finishes dry. Cruel. The way I like it.
“It wasn’t about sex,” I whisper, tracing circles in the condensation. “It was about structure.”
Pair it with your fifth failed promise, oily pecorino, roast chicken you forgot in the oven, or someone else’s partner. The support group is technically still in session—but no one's made eye contact in 45 minutes.
