Lion Head Mesa Cobra

“I did.”

She wonders what he knows. It is enough for him to ask. And it is all she can think as she lifts her mouth from the bowl to pass her rheumy eyes briefly over his. The way of his repose; easy, watchful.

She knows it is unfair to suspect him of understanding the true measure of his colleague’s grief. She can draw many conclusions from that in her mind, but she wont know whether or not they are true.

On her tongue the wine is earthy. A little fire is set free in her limbs, a tolerance met.

“Bitter,” is the assessment, “You’ll like it.” A small provocation, perhaps, layered in the truth.