Monday, 20 May 2013

Leave Not A Sip Behind

JournalWord: Sharing wine with together.


Despite the groans and protest, she smiles as she shushes her bridesmaids while ushering them out the door. She waits until the last mumble and grumble cannot be heard before sliding the lock into place and softly sighing between her glossy, pink lips. 

It is a shocking moment of realization of how quiet this beach side resort is, with only the tropical breeze rustling the palm trees in place of the constant chatter and excitement as they had prepared for her nuptials.

In her wedding dress, a sweet, light, long white gown with a flowing train and roped straps, she sweeps through the mess of hastily tossed hair curlers and mascara wands for her overnight bag, shaking her primped head and scooped up curls at the sight of foundation splashed onto a zipper and dripping from the tube down the side. Shrugging off the spill in the case it ruins her expensive dress, she quickly unzips and pries a bottle from underneath a stack of shorts and tank tops well away from the impending disaster. 

Holding up her prize, she admires the simple, short, dark bottle with a cheap label slapped onto its face. Quickly locating a wine glass from the tower on the complimentary service bar, and hopping over piles of clothes for the cork screw, she settles herself onto the balcony overlooking the ocean and tropical trees. 

With a practiced hand, she swiftly uncorks the bottle and gently pours the crude wine into her glass, noting the dark red liquid absorbing the light. Hesitantly, she swirls and sniffs the concoction before taking a bold sip.

Instantly, she pulls herself away from the foul taste, crinkling her nose at the unrefined flavor, but urges herself to swallow the vile potion. Glaring at the crystal goblet, she chuckles and tips her head up to the sky, staring at the morning sunrise to bate off any offending tears.

"This terrible, Renaldo," she whispers, almost a croak, and the edges of her painted lips quiver and struggle to lift. "Your first wine tastes like shit," she states, voice loud and clear. 

Holding up the braided stem, she allows herself another sip without moving her gaze from the changing horizon. She finishes the glass, and then the short bottle before her bridesmaids interrupt her last moment with her Spanish lover.


There comes a time when a loss can be celebrated in the same fashion as a meeting. 

My idea was a bride who attempts to find time alone for a moment to uncover the last gift she will receive from the man she loves before they truly must separate ways.

I wasn't intending for this to be sad (as I like to believe I am fairly optimistic), as I was hoping it would be a sort of sentiment to moving on with life and forever embedding cherished moment and people into your memory.

I hope you enjoyed reading :)
Keep cheery!


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