Red Wine

Cars with yellow headlights whoosh by this hundred-year-old house, briefly brightening the living room where I lay with an empty glass and purple teeth. The dog is lapping toilet water again, but I don't mind.

Red wine could cure the world, I write, my cursive slurring slightly. Who would start a war while feeling this way? I just want to lounge amongst pillows and drawstring pants, philosophizing peace. Red wine peace. You sure you want to rape and pillage that village? Wouldn't you rather relax in your living room while delicious red wine warms your torso, spreads through your green veins and tingles the tips of your toes? Sure you want to provoke a street side fist fight with that tailgating twit? Wouldn't you rather picnic in the park with plastic cups of warm wine, sharp cheddar cheese, guacamole and a freshly baked baguette? And are you sure you want to drop an atomic bomb on that city of civilian elders? Wouldn't you rather slow dance in your kitchen while towel drying your dinner party's dishes?

Of course, realistically, red wine could not cure the world. For if every malicious leader, mob boss, rapist, angry toll booth attendant, irrational sandwich shop employee and murderer were drunk on red wine, every problem would just be amplified the next morning when all were hungover with dried red-stained tongues, pounding heads and unstoppable diarrhea.



Tonight, I lay drinking alone in the living room of this hundred-year-old house, listening to the whoosh and the wheeze of the wind. Drinking alone? You ask with an awkward concern. Yes, but just one glass, one glass to save this night.