I've drunk the La Terre cabernet sauvignon that I acquired during her last visit.
Savoring it, I remembered the afternoons when I would call her at work, and when she snuck away from her desk to jill herself as we talked on the phone. I remember the first time we did this, before we actually met, and how she would boastfully share with her girlfriends about the phonesex I gave her.
Drinking the wine is like a letting go. I don't want to let it, her, go. I miss her whispers over the phone as she devoured me and my voice. I miss hearing her climaxes. I miss hearing her whispers for me.
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