re: flauna.
‘ I don’t know. I might have. ’
That’s - I’ll have to check. In his absence, Laura has been drinking a glass too many on her own - she doesn’t quite know what’s been eating her up, but it’s easier to sleep when your head’s quiet.
If that bottle’s gone, there’s always another.
Laura gets up slowly, lets her face drop once she’s turned away. She shuffles to the kitchen, rummages through the fridge and then some cupboards, pulling out a dark, dusty bottle of red.
‘ This it? Uh - ’ She squints at the label. In a drawn out, poorly imitated, French accent, ‘ Gevrey Chambertin… Burgundy? ’
Probably not. But it’s still red wine. She doesn’t really taste the difference.
He doesn’t remember what the wine was. He doesn’t think it was French. ❛ Yes, that’s the one, ❜ he says anyway. The wine doesn’t matter, as long as it’s wine.
Adam usually leaves the Dionysian coping mechanisms to Laura, but this time he thinks he may allow himself a few extra drinks. He’s going to need them to get through the night; he’s going to need them if he wants to look his best friend in the eye and tell her that he wants this, that he’s happy.
He feels as though he is at a funeral.
Distantly, not fully aware of the thought, he wishes that he never met Victoria at all, that his life was vastly different --- that he and Laura’s performative marriage charade, put on for the sake of her family, was reality.
❛ Are we pouring glasses or drinking from the bottle? ❜
