I say this with apparent conviction.
You and I are in your hotel room. You're here for work. We're both married to other people now but we hang out when you're in town.
I have gained 20 pounds. Your chest hairs have started to turn gray.
We agree that staying home on Friday and Saturday nights is nice. We're both homeowners now. We take pride in our work. We make good money.
I brought to your room a bottle of red Spanish wine even though I'm trying to get pregnant and at any moment could have life inside me. I just got my period the other day so it's alright.
The wine is from Spain, from grapes grown in Spain, bottled over there then shipped over the ocean to here. I'm not trying to be all Virginia Madsen from "Sideways," but these are facts.
The wine is from Spain and you and I never leave your hotel room. You pour the wine into glass tumblers from the hotel bathroom.
Back in the day we would have drained the bottle -- thanks largely to me -- and gone out to someplace else for more. A bar, a club. A restaurant with a bar. A minibar.
Now when I leave the room at a decent hour -- work in the morning; gotta be up at five a.m. -- I leave one-thirds of my tumbler of wine on your nightstand, undrunk.