“Of course I’m staring,” he said. ‘Nooooo! You idiot!’ his drunken brain immediately shrieked.
In vino veritas. Boy was that the truth.
He loved wine and imagined possessing a delicate palette. He didn’t. He only pretended to sniff, swirl and sip. In truth, he guzzled wine. Shamelessly. And he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut. If only he could zip it or seal it with a steel plate.
Her slap stung. Her boyfriend’s punches, plural, fucking killed. Now his face throbbed. His cheek was swollen, and he dabbed blood with a cocktail napkin.
In vino veritas indeed. And headaches.