Wine doesn’t point out my flaws. She makes them disappear. And says, “you’ll never be a domestic goddess but at least you’re pretty.”
Sometimes my day blows a fat one. Wine whispers, “Tell me who did this to you. I will kill them.” And then I smile.
Wine never asks me to put her socks on, yells that her left sock feels funny, rips it off, throws it across the room, then flails around like a fish out of water.
I’ve never accused wine of breaking promises. Or crushing dreams. On the contrary, wine tells me to dream. Dream bigger. It’s all possible.
Even bad wine is good.
Wine’s classy. I’m classy. So, Heaven wanted us together.