Naturally, he selected reds for his tastings in Sonoma. Reds were always best. Whites were never as dramatic.
He tried a sip of the 2007. The selection was mellow with no acidic pinch at his throat, and it gracefully offered a mild sweetness. Overall, it was painfully inoffensive—it just wasn’t what he was looking for.
What he really was looking for had just clunked into the tasting room in warm platform wedge sandals. Her dainty feet were heavy from a wine tasting elsewhere, and her starched white dress had a high neckline and short skirt. He grew giddy thinking she might be out of that dress shortly.
He approached her slowly, subtly, not wanting to seem too desperate. Finally, he was close enough to make his move.
Swiftly tilting his wine glass, he checked his wristwatch, letting the red fly onto the woman’s dress.
“Oh my gaaawd, you moron!” she nasally bellowed. “This is never going to come out! I need to change.”
It was the best whine yet—there was a high pitch of distress with a low undertone of grave disappointment and hints of unmitigated narcissism. 10 out of 10, would spill again.