A Smooth Finish

The last thing to divide was a bottle of Shiraz, a wedding gift meant to be shared on our twenty-fifth anniversary. Neither of us wanted the reminder. Nor to be wasteful. Two last things in common.

“Let’s share it, as we sign?”

You opened. I poured.

“Too dry.” Like our bedroom.

“Wasn’t sweet enough to age.” We hadn’t been kind.

“Not enough acidity.” We never fought to preserve our relationship’s thrill.

This marriage was never meant to last six years. Let alone twenty-five.

“At least it’s not bitter.”

We weren’t.

We knew not to linger; to enjoy a smooth finish.

Alethea pretends to be profound with purple prose, puns and alliteration.