A kind of sophisticated pleasure, he thought. A rare treat. A glass of wine, something to enjoy, not something to hord. Not something to enjoy too often.

He had found the perfect balance. Just often enough, he would sit at night in his chair, and drink his wine by the fire. His break, his time to relax, nothing but him and his wine.

He closed his eyes, trying not to think of anything else. Nothing but tonight. No more stress or arguments. He had to keep his thoughts relaxed, he couldn’t think too hard, or it would all come back.

He stared down into his glass, swirling it around a little. And then he remembered. He saw the bubbles turn into little hearts. He could hear glasses clinking together, he could hear laughter, he could hear her whisper.

He remembered, remembered when they were young. Remembered what it felt like to have no worries, and to have nothing but each other.

He realized that he had found the perfect balance for his wine, but everything else? That was a lot harder.