All He Ever Does Is Wine
Like with most things, wine is best enjoyed in moderation.
I imagine it may take a while for you to find this note. It could be days, weeks, maybe even months before you see it sitting among the empty cases and the label scrapbooks that you hold so dear. I briefly thought of writing this on the side of one of the unopened bottles that line the walls of our home to ensure that you would read it, but decided against it.
When you do finally stumble upon this note, perhaps you will already have noticed that I have gone. It's possible, of course. You may look up from your wine magazines or your detailed weather reports of the area surrounding your favorite wineries and wonder why it's so quiet, why no one is badgering you to get out of the house or step outside your obsession and experience something new for a change. I doubt it, though.
For the record, however, before you start blaming me for not understanding your dedication to the vine, I want it known that I tried as hard as I could to make this work. I was happy to help you move your Cabernets and Syrahs into the cellar. And when you wanted to experiment with Pinot Grigios and Sauvignon Blancs, when you wanted to dally in Zinfandels and Ports, I welcomed them in with an open heart, even as they began to take up more and more of your time. It was only when you wanted to put the Merlots in the spare bedroom next to ours that I began to worry, but I was sure our love could get me through.
But when you wanted to bring your 2010 Doppio Passo Italian Primitivo 4-pack into the bedroom - OUR bedroom - that I decided we had traveled a bridge too far.
Maybe I'm not as young and fresh as the varietal aromas of your Primitivo. Maybe my hair no longer has the deep ruby red color you find so intoxicating in those four bottles. And while you may believe that the blackberry, cherries, and ripe red fruit flavors show excellent character, I might point out that any wine that would come between a man and his wife has no character at all. I might, that is, if I cared anymore.
Goodbye, John. In the end, this is probably for the best. Maybe as you age and mature in that cellar of yours, you'll one day see the mistake you've made.