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The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Bottle of Wine.

I'd better make this romance worth it.

By Empty Poetry and VersePublished 4 months ago 7 min read

The Man Who Mistook his Wife for a Bottle of Wine.

Written By, Akil K.

It began early one morning, while hard at work on a classic bust. He was a sculptor and became more devoted to his art each day. Working on a piece in the garage he loved the scent of the wet puddy, as he earnestly molded each prestine shoulder to his desire. Suddenly there was a knock, dramatically he froze in shock. It must be my wife he thought, although it was a bit early for morning disruptions.

Hello? He opened the garage door, confused he searched but saw no one there. She is quite the practical joker, but this is on the side of annoyance even to her standards. Turning around and shutting the door behind him, his foot kicked something heavy. Surprised, he looked back to see a bottle of wine now rotating on its axis, as if preparing to fall or maybe land back in its upright undisturbed position.

He wasn’t going to wait and see it crack, or even consider where it came from, there was no time. He fell to his knees and embraced the bottle of dark red liquid. Lifting it he placed it on his worktable, and thought, what an unexpected surprise.

In deep contemplation he stared at the bottle, does she think I'd want to get a glass before work? I'd rather have eggs and toast, this is rather neurotic, I wonder if she's okay. I'll try a bit, if only In the name of spontaneity.

Snapping out of his fascination, he began searching for the corkscrew. Anxiously rummaging through the seemingly endless junk drawers, he imagined winding a screw into the cork. The picture formed was visceral, a full-body experience causing his blood to rush, and his body to become flush with heat. Still unable to find it he decided, this must be a sign, I've wasted a great deal of my time. He placed the bottle back on the other side of the door and shut it firmly. Now able to continue his devotion.

A few moments passed before again a knocking erupted on the door. What could it be now he wondered. Becoming increasingly frustrated as he had now missed precisely seventeen minutes of the hour with his newest fixation. Which gazed at him like a woman who wanted more of his attention than he was able to give.

Again he turned the rustic bronze door nob and opened the washed-out unfinished garage door. Rubbing his brow line, he looked up, again no one in sight. Looking down at the floor, there was not a bottle this time but a poured glass. Well, that’s risky he thought, I could have easily spilled this all over the floor. Lifting the glass, he quickly embraced with slightly parted lips. Then he set it back down, shut the door, and continued his work. I have to be focused only Forty minutes remain for my heart's desire.

His hands embraced the clay mold, back in his artistic paradise, and now with violin music added to the atmosphere. He thought my wife would surely not dare to disrupt me now that I've turned my favorite composer on. Thinking she would be able to take the clear hint. Yet again there was a aggressive knocking.

Beginning to drool, and clench his jaw with growing irritation, he again opened the door to the studio, this time to be greeted by the whole bottle of Pinot Noir. Impediatly it toppled and rolled with a possessed vigor. As though it was propelled by some invisible hand, clinking down the few stone stairs.

It was a mystery how it did not break, still the glass banging against the floor produced a disruptive sound, it rolled around his studio with such personality. It seemed to run away from his hand as he tried to capture it, like chasing a dollar bill in the wind.

One of his slippers came loose tripping him, now stumbling to his knees. The bottle slowly rolled toward him, meeting him on the cold early morning concrete. Stretching a rough sculptor hand forward, he embraced the bottle grasping it firmly in his hand. Breathing heavily from the ordeal, he again opened the garage door and placed it just beyond the threshold. I can not have another glass, that would just be excessive he thought.

Why is my wife so set on making me into a wine-o? Does she find this an attractive lifestyle? He gasped, is it my anniversary, or maybe her birthday? He began to check the calendar pensively trying to solve this riddle. He checked his watch only twenty minutes left to work on my piece, flailing his hands like an agitated French man. Getting back to the embodiment of an anthropomorphized woman. He thought no matter what I will not respond to another disruption, she would just have to accept that I am simply obsessed with my art.

He molded, using a variety of blunt, and sharp tools to give form to dust, imbuing it with both beauty and creativity. He believed his work to be prolific, and for good reason. Even outside of the studio he thought about the faces and forms he would give breath to each day. Even while he and his wife made love, he collected expressions later to become inspiration.

With five minutes left to dedicate to his prophetic inspiration, there was the faintest knocking at the door. He gasped as a man might who had been married for several years and was caught committing adultery. He ignored it, but the knocking continued without pause. Checking his clock, he said "what the hell, I'll call it a day," wiping his hands he walked to the door to give his lover the tenderness she was searching for.

Swinging open the door, anticipating seeing her smiling face and maybe a hot plate of eggs and bacon. Was disappointed to be greeted by only a full bottle of wine. Completely confused about the relevance of this immortal bottle. Grasped it and thought maybe I ought to take a hint. He held it by the neck. She must still be comfortably in bed waiting for me to join her, probably feeling jealous of my work as it gets my attention and the affection of my hands. I'm sure this is a romantic occasion, he thought.

His body became tense with excitement as he envisioned carving her with his biological tool. He went to the kitchen to open the bottle. But could not find the corkscrew anywhere, opening each drawer and slamming them in his uneasy pursuit for the prized artifact. He decided he would have to use a blade. A man with his artistic touch could easily handle this chore.

Stabbing the modern day dagger into the cork, it went far deeper than he had envisioned, forcing the crimson liquid to squirt from the now pierced orifice. The pressure caused it to spray a delicate mist and release several staining drips onto the kitchen counter. My wife would have my head he thought, so I'd better make this romance worth it. Grabbing two crystal glasses, he made his way up the stairs to their bedroom.

It often felt like they hardly slept together, as his time for her was consumed by endless projects. He would often remind her that there was no comparison between her and his craft. He would choose his clay and paint anytime, he would say "you are my second wife, my first wife I can transform into whatever I like and will never disrupt my mind at work." But still he thought there were many things his sculpted artifacts could not do. His body tingled again as he thought of all his wife's specialties that the clay would never fathom.

Pushing open the bedroom door with his foot, he was shocked not to see his wife. But hearing the showers running water, decided that he would wait. He poured the wine for the two of them placing hers on the nightstand, he posed naked like one of his portraits, sipping wine like a Greek in Athens.

There was a firm cold knock at the bedroom door, why was she knocking he thought. "Come in my love" he said, slowly the door creaked open. It was not his wife, but a man in uniform. The artist sat up quickly throwing a pillow over his nakedness. "What are you doing here, what is the meaning of this" he shouted now feeling disjointed and somewhat baffled by the events of the morning.

The police officer trembled at the sight he saw, drawing his weapon in fear he called for backup. Within moments several men in blue uniforms crowded into the house, all witnessing the horrific scene at the end of the trail of blood.

Who would have guessed these would be the events of the sunrise? A man sitting with his wife's corpse, a corkscrew in her neck. He filled cups of her dark malbec blood. Sipping it with deranged enjoyment. He offered the ruby liquid as if a delicacy, to his unexpected guests as he was arrested and forcefully taken from his home.

In the back of the police cruiser

He said allowed. "What a Woman, and What a wine."


About the Creator

Empty Poetry and Verse

Empty and Endless The Heart Of a Poet.

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