Night

It’s getting late
It’s getting dark
In the end of the night
I can feel your warmth
Come up close
Close to me
'Cause in the end of the night
I can feel you breathe
     --Zola Jesus, Night

His hands peeled the foil from the wine bottle and brushed dust from the old label.

His wrists turned and turned.

Digging metal into cork.

His fingers trembled just a touch when they set the corkscrew back on the counter.

He stopped, leaning the counter, eyes closed for a moment. He drew a breath. Just a hint of perfume threaded into the kitchen from the other room.

He wiped his hands on his pants. Then remembered the towel. Two special glasses came down from their high place in the cabinet.

The rich wine swirled. Such a deep aroma. It made him think of what it was like to look into her eyes. How can you be so uneasy around a person and drawn to them at the same time?

The wine, and he, moved for the door.

His feet were the stronger part. Not indulging even a stride of nerves or hesitation.


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