WINE

easy as juice to drink. the smell alone intoxicates. in college i liked nothing better than the “bag in a box” to have for an evening. big cardboard billboard of a box, smooth and tastefully decorated, with the sloshing inebriate within. a cardboard fruit to be juiced. but the color there was hidden until poured—not poured—more like dispensed. through a tap like out of which you'd imagine thick army coffee pouring in some army mess tent. but instead you'd get Bacchus' nectar. the fist sip is sharp, awakening your lazy tongue, which promptly becomes numb from the sensory overload. eventually, your brain soaks up relaxation like a soggy sponge in a bucket, less and less engaged in caring every moment. the troubles of the day, of school, of life lie outside this box. you are the bag in the box. you have become what you've imbibed. you smell like sticky rotten fruit and you move with the grace of a sac filled with liquid—softened bones and heavy sponge head. a numbness creeping up the spine from the stomach to the head. that's the way we liked it.