She told me over dinner one evening
that I should switch to white wine—
less tannins and calories, she claimed.
I smiled and shook my head,
a vintage cabernet stubbornly clinging
to my bleached white teeth.
The next day I found a couple bottles
of chardonnay chilled in the fridge,
a note tethered to one’s neck:
I did not.
Four months later,
we signed divorce papers;
she packed her things and left.
I drank the chardonnay that last night,
dizzied by the herringbone pattern
of the old parquet floor, and wondered
what would happen if I ate our frozen cake top.
Copyright © 2014 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved