I descend the staircase to pick a bottle of wine from the cellar. As always, I decide based on the label. Tonight feels like a yellow label. A red stenciled lizard lies on his stomach. Or her. Her stomach. Tasting notes — dry, full and with a hint of nutmeg.
I return and pour a glass, knowing just enough about swirling and nose and viscosity to appear sophisticated.
Old newspapers sit beside the easy chair. These should have been thrown away. I laugh aloud as someone makes a joke. I don’t stop to consider whether or not it is funny.
It’s the second bottle I’ve opened, and it’s starting to feel like it.
I turn up the volume on the television. The neighbor can pound on the wall if it’s too loud.
I’m forgetting what it’s like to be needed.