Red Wine Confessions

(hmmmmm) Two glasses.

Corner table. You haven't said much in about five minutes.

Neither have I.

That's probably why this is working. (shhh)

Pour another. (yeah) There it is.

RED WINE.

YOUR EYES. ONE MORE AND WE'RE BOTH LYING.

SAY YOU'RE FINE. I'LL SAY I'M FINE.

WE BOTH KNOW WE'RE BUYING TIME.

RED WINE. LOW LIGHT.

DON'T ASK ME WHAT HAPPENS TONIGHT.

First glass—we're strangers. Second—you moved your chair closer.

Third—somehow we're arguing about something

neither one of us remembers starting.

You started it. Probably.

Don't ruin the song.

Fair.

Your lipstick

on the edge of the glass.

My jacket on the back of your chair.

Clock says

midnight.

Nobody believes clocks after midnight.

RED WINE. YOUR EYES.

ONE MORE AND WE'RE BOTH LYING.

SAY “LAST ONE.” I'LL SAY “RIGHT.” THEN WATCH SOMEBODY POUR IT TWICE.

RED WINE. LOW LIGHT.

WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT GOOD ADVICE?

Restaurant empties. We're still here.

Street gets quiet.

We're still talking.

Elevator opens. Neither one moves.

“You going up?” “Are you?” “Wrong question.”

Sunrise showing up like nobody invited it.

Two empty glasses. One unfinished conversation.

“One more?” “At sunrise?”

“You got somewhere better?”

RED WINE. YOUR

EYES.

ONE MORE AND WE'RE DONE LYING.

NO BIG WORDS. NO GOODBYES.

JUST THAT LOOK YOU DON'T DISGUISE.

RED WINE. SUNRISE. WHO THE FUCK LET IN THE LIGHT?

“Last glass?”

“You said that three glasses ago.”

“I lied.”