Eleven bottles were discarded on the side of the road, some of them empty.
josh
January 11th. Every morning, another joins the line. An unwritten rule.
July 23rd. Summer was warm, a young couple stops by en route to their final destination. Ambling along, unaware of the 204 bottles lining the highway.
“Wine. Cold.”
“Tough day?”
“Sí. Sorry, yes.”
“You know what to do?”
International idioms were increasingly bizarre.
July 24th. Curtains twitch at the sound of the ignition. Doors open as wheels crunch on the gravel driveway.
204 bottles. The townsfolk double count.
The Sancerre clinks in the backseat as the hairs on the back of their necks leap up in a sudden breeze.