I drink wine.
Not in great quantity nor ostentatiously, but I do enjoy the occasional quaff or two of a cheap, dry red to tinge the late-day darkening sky with a faint rosy glow. I think of it as a sort of expensive-bed-&-breakfast moment, approximated in my bland midwestern apartment.
I have two sources for my wine selection: Most often I peruse Kroger’s wine display and buy whatever pinot noir or merlot has the largest gap between the “regular” white-tag price and the “sale” yellow-tag price. I am, you see, unusually astute. My alternative method is to stop by the little wine shop in my neighborhood and buy whatever cheapish bottle the thoughtfully polite proprietor recommends. That method yields slightly more reliable results as well as the virtuous sense that I am doing my part to help my neighbors.
Then, as my living room darkens in the early evening, I pour a glass. If the effect is sufficiently corruptive I may throw caution to the wind and pour a second glass before inserting a plastic stopper and applying a pump device that allegedly sucks the air out of the bottle to retard the oxidation of the remnants.
Sorry to go technical on you, but we oenophiles get that way sometimes.
I haven’t had a glass of wine for a few days, preferring instead to relish the subtle nuances of absolute sobriety. But as I type this sentence I fondly contemplate the bottle that rests in the wine cellar just above my kitchen sink. I may open it later today, inspect the color closely, sniff the bouquet critically and slip into that friendly place.