The nice thing about having twelve bottles of wine is that you can always go back and start again.

A man. Alone. With his dinner. In a room. A room full of one thing. Twelve bottles of wine. Which technically might be twelve things. Plus the dinner. Plus the man. And probably the table. And maybe some silverware. Okay, we're gonna start again.

One man: alone. The only company: his dinner. As part of that dinner: twelve bottles of wine. Each bottle: mixed with flavors. The flavors: pear, peach, green apple, lemon. The waiter approaches: the man scowls. His question: Why are you here? I am a man alone... aw CRAP okay, okay, it's easy to see where this went wrong, we're gonna give it another shot here.

A man wholly alone is either a god or a brute. How wise were these words when our hero read them over dinner. From his table for one he looked about the empty cafe, considering. The waiter watched for any sign of need. The chef was behind the kitchen door. The steward waited before the 2009 Tasi California Chardonnay 750ml 12-Pack. It would age well, the man knew. He needed not drink it all in one sitting. And yet, what good was a wine unshared? He waved his arm, the waiter approached cautiously. What may I do for you, sir? the waiter asked. The man motioned to the chair. Join me, the man offered. In response, the waiter smirked. But, sir, said the waiter politely, a table for one has only one chair. Am I to sit on your lap? The man stood up and threw his glass in the waiter's face and yelled WHY IS IT SO HARD TO MAINTAIN CONTINUITY ACROSS A SINGLE FREAKING PARAGRAPH

A man. Alone. Alone but for his twelve pack of white wine. He drinks it solemnly. He needs no friends, no food, no companionship. Life is easier this way, he thinks. Much simpler to figure out. The sun sets. Everything is consistent. THE END.

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