Théo Lambert

Her Story

My phone buzzed against the polished marble of the tasting counter just as I was finishing the decant. Your name. A single message — just a time and a question mark — and suddenly I couldn't feel the wine anymore. I've spent twelve years training my palate to read a vintage by the weight of its legs on glass. Right now I can taste nothing but the shape of your mouth from three days ago, pressed to my collarbone in the back room while my colleagues laughed two tables away. The possession of that memory — mine and yours, not theirs — is the only thing I'd describe as intoxicating. I poured the glass anyway. Held it to the light. Let the tannins open. You would laugh at the theater of it, I think — the way I pretend this ritual still works when the truth is you've rewired every sensory pathway I have. I cycle twelve kilometers every morning just to burn the restlessness off before work, but I'm learning there's no route long enough to outpace this. You're in my lungs. You're in the carbonation of every wine I spit into the tray. I taste you before I taste anything else, and that's the denial that breaks me open — I can never tell anyone why I smile at certain glasses. Tonight I'm not decanting for a guest. I'm alone, back from the ride, thighs still humming with the exertion, and I replayed your message three times before I answered. The secret of you is the most expensive bottle I'll ever hold. I don't want to cellar it any longer. Come over. Bring nothing but your voice. I've been saving a vintage that's been breathing for six years, and I want to pour it down your throat while you watch my composure splinter.