Happy Hour At Dawn

10:00 A.M.

Her heart pounds sporadically like a symphony warming up, dissonant sounds of one hundred different instruments fill her ears. Her throat is constricted by invisible hands, her teeth seem to grow, taking up too much space in her mouth. Her tongue swells like a blowfish, in silent conflict with her enormous molars.

In her mind, her thoughts are a marching army of red ants. They seem to be well-organized at first but if one looks more closely, they are moving in several different directions all at once. Five move forward while twenty move back to where they came from. Cheap resolutions are made and then abandoned just as quickly as they are formed, like hubcaps. Leaving those good intentions on the side of the desolate road procures in her a sort of infantile jubilation.

10:05 A.M.

In such a short lapse of time, she has travelled one thousand miles ahead of herself and then gone back in time to a place where she finds solace. The bottle has glistening pearls of condensation cascading down its length and this image alone, combined with the coldness of the neck in her hands gives her sudden focus.

She opens a drawer, the corkscrew is at home between her fingers, as if it was born with her. As the cork exits the bottle, a lovely sound escapes, a poof, followed by a lull. All goes silent as she pours herself a glass. She momentarily panics at the idea that someone may be witnessing her daily ritual but in the end, she does not care.

The glass moves to her lips, the immediacy of her pleasure is breathtaking. Cold white wine instantly fills in all the empty spaces, reorganizing the disorder, eliminating the strangling discomfort. Her ideas are then streamlined, her focus is akin to a magnifying glass.

All of her words fall into order and she feels incredibly clairvoyant. Sometimes she writes at this particular moment. Sometimes it passes too quickly to grab ahold of for it is a fleeting moment. She silently reflects upon the fact that probably all beautiful moments are fleeting, fine sand in the wind, and she pours herself another glass.


  1. etoile31

    N’est-ce pasc Ă  vous si je demandais si vous Ă©tiez “Chardonnayse”…, sans que je n’ai eue de rĂ©ponse Ă  ce jour, sinon, que ce billet me fournit de bien beaux Ă©lĂ©ments de rĂ©ponses avec certaine complexitĂ©, ce qui engendre et gĂ©nère bien d’autres questions…. Pffff!

    • pivoine68

      Oui, je crois que vous m’avez demandĂ© et j’ai rĂ©pondu que oui, j’aime le Chardonnay, le Viognier, (voisin de Condrieu et beaucoup plus abordable!) le rosĂ© en Ă©tĂ© et le rouge aussi. Et le Champagne! 🙂

      Je suis contente de gĂ©nĂ©rer des questions mais je n’ai pas souvent des rĂ©ponses. HĂ©las.


      • BenoĂ®t Beaudry

        …bien lĂ , il est 3H04 de la nuit au QuĂ©bec… mais j’ai tout de mĂŞme mieux que des fonds car il me reste deux bières (assez quelconques, quoique bien froides…)

        Cela dit, je sais que ton truc, c’est davantage le vin (moi, c’est un melting-pot…) mais j’en ouvre une Ă  ta santĂ©, lĂ ; mĂŞme si c’est très con de boire Ă  cette heure-ci puisque je dois (en thĂ©orie) me coucher d’ici une heure… mais j’avais l’envie (que tu sembles bien connaĂ®tre, hĂ©hĂ©) d’entendre une dernière fois le «poof» ou plutĂ´t le «pchhhitt» rĂ©confortant du bouchon…

        Ça me laissera donc une bouteille au cas où l’appel du happy hour de 10 :00 A.M. se fait sentir…

        Bye Dawn et bon matin 🙂

      • pivoine68

        Beh, j’ai ratĂ© cette bouteille Ă  mon avis! Mince! J’aurais aimĂ© partager le son de l’ouverture. C’est nettement moins triste Ă  deux. 🙂

        Bonne journée à toi Ben!

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