The Ice Wine Wasn’t Cold Enough

When memory is colder than the present, but not quite gone.

I brought the bottle

wrapped in tissue,

the same one I’d carried

across borders,

half out of sentiment,

half out of hope.

You didn’t ask what it was for.

Didn’t ask why I’d chosen this night.

You just took it from my hands,

smiled a little,

and said,

“Let’s see how it tastes.”

The bar was quiet—

dim lights, amber shadows,

the kind of place that lets you forget

what time it is,

or whether it matters.

We sat by the window.

Not hidden,

but away from noise.

Two people with too much between them

and too little left to say.

You poured the wine.

The glass clouded slightly—

a warning, maybe,

of what it wasn’t.

You took the first sip.

Paused.

Said, “It’s sweet.”

But your brow furrowed,

just enough to betray

that it wasn’t quite right.

I didn’t say a word.

Just smiled

and lifted my own glass

as if the sweetness were deliberate,

as if I’d meant it this way.

We finished it slowly.

No toasts,

no stories.

Only shared glances

and the sound of the bottle

emptying into silence.

You walked me out.

Held the door,

said “Goodnight”

like it wasn’t the end of anything.

And I left thinking

how everything had been soft,

and kind,

and almost.

Like the wine—

meant to be cold,

but warm

by the time it reached us.