Where it all breaks down for me is the wine. I come home looking for it like a lover, and there it is–waiting for me, always attentive, always available. I love how it looks, I love how it smells, I love how it tastes; I’m not certain I can qualify all my many boyfriends, husbands, boyfriends, lovers, and mistakes in like terms. After I finish one glass, another one appears–with the “clink” of a single ice cube the lush liquid fills the glass and my pleasure is fulfilled. I can relax. This is what I know of myself, and I recline into it with an ease unattainable elsewhere in the confines of my obligations.