I told you it would be easy. Just a glass. Something light. Clean. Harmless.
But look at you now. You can’t stop chasing the bitterness—pretending it’s freshness, pretending you’re still in control.
You tasted pear and thought you understood. Then came white peach, green almond, and something like fennel seeds warming on your tongue. The texture surprised you—creamy, but with edge. Like silk pulled tight across bone.
Then came the grip, the curve of acidity, the way it pulled back just when you leaned in. You laughed. I smiled. You never noticed how far you’d followed.
Now you're halfway through the bottle, saying things you don’t mean, believing things I never promised.
This isn’t wine. It’s suggestion. And I’m already pouring the next glass.
Serve it with salted fish, torn bread, or nothing at all. It doesn’t matter. You’re not hungry anymore. Just obedient.
