“Cozy, wasn’t it?” smirked my host. “Warm with a hint of heartache, yet just a thimble of what you’ll find in our nostalgia catalog.” He must have seen the look of panic in my eyes and placed an unwelcome hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. A typical side-effect the first-tasters always feel. It’s best to just let her go.” Already I had forgotten her scent as I felt her face slip away. Her name moved to the tip of my tongue, before…
“I’m sorry. Who were we talking about?”
That condescending smile again. “We can always find her again. This way please.”
A particular row of oak-lined casks caught my eye as we ventured further into the cellar. "For expensive tastes, " my host said. “Memories suppressed, or even repressed. Much harder to obtain.”
“And people pay for these?”
“Not all of life can be flavored without consequence.”

I’m driving now, and Daisy is next to me. Childhood sweethearts, we grew up together, and I like nothing more than to hear her laugh. Her hair is barley blonde.
Or so the label says.