You're not sure if you're tasting it or feeling it. You pop the cap and something primal fizzes out—sharp, zesty, impatient. Then it hits. Blindfold on, mouth open.
Citrus bursts like a flashbulb. Lychee drips down the spine. Papaya clings to your lips with the sweetness of something you shouldn't be swallowing in public. It’s orange but electric, like someone snuck acid into your apricot nectar and whispered don’t fight it.
The bubbles don’t tickle—they bite. That Riesling acidity flicks and snaps, all nerve endings and no apology. Just when you catch your breath, another wave crashes in, and now you don’t know if it’s sweat, wine, or your sense of direction that’s completely gone.
You’re overstimulated, under control, and helplessly hooked. Best served with spicy shrimp, tart ceviche, or nothing at all—just your legs curled beneath you, the bottle in your lap, and your brain on mute.
