I had only wanted to drink wine.

Red or white? Both displeased me. I suppose I liked the way how red would stain the glass as I swirled it around my chapped wrist. It would bloody my fingerprints and smear them down the neck and I would smile. I’d lost the tour guide before I could take a sip. Standing at the barrel of red white on tap, dripping like molasses into the dirt under my big-tongued boot. The arid dirt had soaked it up best it could, now the soil gurgled with the sour taste and frothed at the mouth, dirt mixing with wine as I dug the toe of my sole into the mess.

A man was here now. Just behind the second row of vines that went on for a mile, then stopped at the edge of the earth to be warmed by the setting sun. He’s just standing there, arms starchily at his side, hanging too long so that his wrists hung at his knees and his cap down too low to see his eyes. But I recognise him still, I remembered that the tour guide said that the owner of this place hasn’t a single tooth on the bottom, and he’s smiling at me.

I’d thought to wave but decided against it, he hadn’t waved either. Oh, he’s got his hand up to his mouth now, wiping his flaccid lip outside a toothless gaping with the back of his glove. Then he lifted his pinky up and tipped his fingers as if to say, Drink! He wants me to taste it but the red wine isn’t moving in the glass anymore. I stopped swirling it so it’s all just laying dead at the bottom. I don’t think I’d like the taste of it dead.

I can’t see him anymore. He’s probably gone to find the others, displeased that I wouldn’t taste his labor.

I’d thought to look for the tour guide too, and the rest of my group. Though, I’d rather stay here. The soil will be warm, the sun has bathed it for minutes as I’ve watched it, so I may lay here. I’ll just lay here awhile until they return.