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She tasted like expensive dust and blackberries, her tongue pushing against mine with a demand that made my knees feel like they were made of cornmeal.
He didn't use a decanter for the 2012, just let it sit in the glass until the air forced the fruit to give up.
Claire watched the spittoon and wondered if there was a polite clinical term for the way the girl’s thumb was tracing the rim of Julian's glass.
The cork came out with a sound like a polite cough, the kind you give when you're about to lie.
I was a tourist in his tragedy, standing in a limestone cellar that smelled of old wood and new sins.
The heat coming off him was like a Santa Ana wind, dry and relentless, making the hair on my arms stand straight up.
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The air in the cellar was thick, a heavy blanket of damp earth and French oak that made the high-altitude dryness of my real life feel like a hallucination.
I watched her throat move when she swallowed the Cabernet, and I thought about the exact pressure required to leave a mark there.