A little bit long, but, hey, the muse spoke and I listened.

She kept the bottle under the passenger seat of the Seat, a cellophane-wrapped stack of plastic cups next to it. The tiny bodega tucked between a disco and a pasteleria along Avenida San Fernando smelled sour and musty, the cask-filled nook with its sticky counters and floors was easily overlooked by the touristas gawking at the white-sided buildings. Hard to tell it was 10:30 in the evening, the sky was still so blue without even of hint of dusk around the edges.

She carried the empty bottle in with her, eschewing the plastic bags with twist ties handed out for free with the wine; the odd form of packaging sat uneasy with her. All the wine was cheap, homemade, red and slightly bitter. She could fool herself that the liter she stopped for everday and put in her bottle made her better than the street beggars who snatched their fifty pesetas from sun-struck American/British/German hands, then took the wine home in plastic bags. The bottle had cost her an extra fifty pesetas the first time she'd gone in to buy wine and that made all the difference between her and them.

Warm summer evenings in Eminescu’s city, pouring local wine from big plastic bottles into chipped glasses while the purple shadows lengthen all around us. Romania in 1993: a world where a bride and groom fresh from the church with cheeks glowing and veil a-flutter will queue for an hour to achieve the glamour of a Big Mac from the newly-opened McDonalds; a world where one in three people worked for the Secret Police; a world of poetry and bureaucracy and wild dogs roaming the streets; a world of imported soap operas, glittering dreams, back-breakingly hard work and cheap red wine.

Beverly, it's possible, perhaps even probable, that was the real cause, but I hope I described the experience vividly enough to explain why I've never tried to find out.

Of course she's looking forward to your propposal, Jilli, but I'm glad she had the presence of mind to say so. I hope the three weeks fly by.

i'll have to ponder the drabble.

Not that much pondering needed, as it turns out. A little autobiography because it amuses me. 100 words including title.

Why I Self-Identify as a Math-person, not a Lit-person

I was underemployed, living on a friend's charity, with a lot of time and few responsibilities when I came across a John Steinbeck collection and read Tortilla Flats. The characters scrounged free eggs and bought jugs of wine whenever they somehow came into money. Steinbeck always mentioned how much those jugs cost, and since I knew how much Hearty Burgundy went for at Safeway, I calculated the rate of inflation from Steinbeck to me. It has stuck with me ever since; cheap, red wine as an economic indicator.

Anyone still interested in doing weekly drabbles?

This thread is so lonely, there are cobwebs in here. And I miss the drabbling, writing-talking companionship. I'd be happy to post some prompts on Mondays if anyone is up for it.

Anyone still interested in doing weekly drabbles?

Wooo! I was just thinking about this the other day, how we haven't done them in ages!

::holds Ailleann's hand and beams::

I'll try. At least I can help think of prompts.

Yay!

::brushes away cobwebs and blows dust off the chairs::