You’re glaring at the empty and innocent bottle on the edge of the desk. I could not justify dirtying a glass after the dishes were finished.

No, that’s not it.

I like drinking from the bottle because it doesn’t taste like soap and forks.

No, I like feeling the plastic collar left behind after the cork. The edge challenges my tongue to drink without getting sliced in two. I can smell the refrigerator on the neck. I can smell the scent of your radishes, left open in the plastic bowl next to the bottle.

You know which radishes I am talking about. They’re the organic ones that the clerk rang up as pesticide and fertilizer laden and you didn’t say a word because it was cheaper that way. Why is it cheaper to keep the chemicals off? Why didn’t you confess to the clerk?

I like to drink wine from the bottle because I can smell your lie.

I like the weight of the bottle. I like how cold and heavy it feels. I like the way the desk light dances on the surface, past my uncut tongue.