You pop the cork and feel it immediately: the tingle on the back of your neck. Not from the wine — from being observed. You glance at the window. Nothing. But you know.
The wine glows like a surveillance light — soft amber with just a hint of cloud. It smells like sunwarmed citrus left out too long, like apricot skin, orange bitters, and the steam of someone else’s bath. You lift the glass to your mouth, and the air gets heavier. The first sip? Juicy. Dry. Strange. Like licking the condensation off a mirror and catching your own reflection mid-act.
There’s tension here. The kind that builds in empty rooms. Green tea tannins drag across your tongue while the acidity taps politely — until it doesn’t. You swallow. The wine doesn’t leave. It lingers. Like eyes across the courtyard. Like a lens that never blinks.
Eat something if you can: grilled halloumi squeaking between teeth, cold roast chicken pulled apart with fingers, or salted plums you keep in your mouth a little too long. Or skip the meal. Let the wine stare. Let it watch what you do when you think no one’s watching.
