Bring a Bottle of Pinot Fear With You | Margo Griffin
He arrives early with two bottles of pinot noir. He says his son does not expect him to pick him up for another half an hour, and she assures him her philandering husband won’t be home for at least forty more.
She never has a man in the kitchen, the spectacle of her recent naughty alcohol-infused escapades generally reserved for the bedroom. But today, her latest quest stands behind her, peering over her shoulder, his warm breath against her neck, a forest of tiny hairs standing straight up on her arms as she stirs the sauce she prepares for her family’s dinner.
“Let me have a taste,” he murmurs.
“Not ready yet,” she blushes, “I need…it needs another half hour at simmer.”
Wedged between his body and the stove, his lips brush against her ear, and she freezes with her spoon in midair, steam wafting off its wooden head, bright red-orange sauce slowly dripping off its tip.
She wiggles her way free and pours what’s left of the remaining wine from the first bottle of red into their empty glasses, prompting him to reach for the other bottle. Tipsy, he nervously wrestles with the stubborn cork, and when it pops open, some of the ruby red liquid splatters against the white-linen painted clean walls. She stumbles over to the counter for a paper towel, wiping the crimson droplets off the soft creamy palette, knowing the other mess she risks making won’t be as easy to erase. As she faces the wall, he moves up behind her, and she catches her breath, wondering if it is too unsafe. But the beams in the wall are strong, ready to assist her and help carry the weight; she only needs to place her hands against the drywall and ask.
“Ahhhhh,” she sighs as her sweaty hands and flushed cheek press against the wall while he hikes up her skirt and draws down her daisy-patterned blue silken panties. And then she pushes out toward him, urgently inviting him inside so he can tend to her needs while her husband is busy elsewhere.
“Quick! Before they get back from the playground,” she warns in a hushed tentative tone, yet the fire burning in her eyes could singe the wall’s paint.
Fear heightens their desire, and the forbidden taste of their interlude invites more lusty sounds that reverberate around the kitchen. But then his phone vibrates on the granite counter, and his wife’s face and name light up on its screen.
“Oh, not yet,” she protests as she feels the hot pressure of his flesh lifted from her back.
And then his shoulders slump, and his penis deflates because he remembers. “I shouldn’t have drunk so much wine,” he says, looking down at his shrunken promise, hoping wine would help him forget.
But she drinks and fucks to remember, a local fling for every young shiny vaginal trophy her husband shines. And so her hands slide off the wall, and she pulls up her panties, smooths down her skirt, reaches for the wine, and shrugs, “fear is intoxicating.”
Margo lives in the Boston area with her two college-aged daughters (when they aren't away at school) and is mom to the most handsome pug-dachshund mix rescue, Harley. Margo's most recent work has appeared in, Bending Genres, The Dillydoun Review, Hare's Paw Literary Journal and Roi Fainéant Press. You can find her on Twitter @67MGriffin.