wine to wash away the taste of beer. It didn’t work;
now, she tasted the throaty red wine with eau du
weeds.
She knew he hated his job. He worked at a
factory as a manager. One of the best jobs in town,
everyone always said. But he always said he would
rather be a farmer. Or have a vineyard and make
wine. She’d bought him a potted cactus one year;
the pimply kid at the gardening center at the grocery
store where she’d bought it had said they were im-
36
possible to kill. Just water it once a week. He’d man-
aged to kill it in under a month. He’d kept the old
pot, with a withered old cactus skeleton drooping in
it. She hadn’t bought him another plant.
She tipped her glass, watching the wine
swirling at the bottom and along the sides of the
glass. After a moment, she took another long drink
of the wine.
It weighed heavy, dark, and bitter, like too
much honey.