Astrid, Her Dog and a Bottle of Antidote.

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Astrid is writing at the desk in her sitting room; the sky is darkening behind the house, snow is expected and her dog is asleep at her feet while she is organising next July.

The sitting room light is on, but evening sunlight touches her front door.

I am sitting at mine; it’s dark, night has fallen and I’m writing about her. Outside the solar touched twinkle lights are the only things shining.

Astrid is finalising the running order of the apéro concerts that will take place in amongst the vines on her vineyard in the summer.

I am drinking from a bottle of her wine; the lights in my house have not been illuminated and I can only see how much wine is in my glass by holding the glass in front of the screen.

Or, lifting the bottle.

It’s not quite empty.

Astrid’s dog is a male, he walked outside, earlier when I opened the door and watched the sun falling into the clouds over the mountains.

He’s a Labrador, six years old; I learnt this when I asked her – Astrid, not directly to the dog.

I wouldn’t ask the dog, though I did talk to him.

Astrid had painted her nails black; she doesn’t look like a person who would paint her nails black.

She asked me my name, I told her; she seemed to think I might be visiting to talk about music for the forthcoming concerts.

It was a possibility, but not the case.

I bought a case.

A case of six bottles.

The wine is white; it’s called ‘Antidote’.

I’m drinking it tonight as an antidote.

Astrid is alone in her sitting room.

I am alone in mine.

Her curtains are closed; mine are open.

Hours separate us.

  formerly published in The Archives.