In deep, round tones the man on the other end of the phone line walked me through the tasting. I held my glass up to the light as he instructed, admiring the play of light on the honey colored liquid, watching the legs of wine dance down the sides.
“Nose the glass,” he said.
I tilted the glass and breathed in deeply, my nostrils filling with notes of citrus, pear, butter and caramel. My soft mmmmm of pleasure purred through the line to his ear.
“That’s it, I can hear you enjoying the scents. Now sip.”
Slowly I took a mouthful, enjoying the flavors that went from crisp to cleanly sweet to a velvety dry finish. My exhale blew the lingering taste of fruit across my tongue.
“That was like drinking a Mediterranean summer afternoon. It’s my favorite of the three we’ve tried so far,” I cooed, the wine relaxing me and my voice.
We spoke of the grapes, where they were grown, how they were harvested, the barrels they rested in. Laughter chimed through the line—his rumbling like thunder, mine tinkling like crystal—as he walked me though the vineyard’s offerings.
“I shouldn’t say what I’m thinking,” he said.
“And why not?” I asked.
“It’s not proper,” he warned.
“Then by all means, do tell,” I teased.
“I was thinking that the flavors of this wine, combined with the sound of your voice must be what phone sex is like, although I’ve never tried it.”
My laughter trilled out, bubbling like champagne.
“Where on the planet are you?” he asked, his lust making his voice even deeper.
I told him.
“I’ll be in your town in March conducting a tasting. Would you do me the honor of being my guest?”
“It would be my pleasure,” I said.
“I’ll see you in one hundred and eighty or so days. That’s a promise.”