New Year’s Eve

Was it possible that I accept? New Year’s Eve, taxis exorbitant and unreliable. More than one glass of wine not worth the risk. Police hovering the early hours for lax unlawful drivers. Too wet to walk home.
The woman wore a deep blue velvet top, swathed at the neck, folds folding into folds. ‘Enjoy yourself,’ she said, ‘we’ll give you a lift home.’ It was tempting. The soft crevices of the garment offered multiple silken cradles, hidden nests, soothing and safe, to waft me through darkened streets.
Her husband topped up her glass; ‘Champagne, the best tipple!’ His cheeks bristled beard, his mouth and eyes in retreat amongst this prolific whiskery. To me he said; ’Drink up, we’ll be passing your door!’
For the rest of the evening water stood for wine. One wife’s cushioned niches inviting, but would her husband’s hands would be firmly on the vehicle’s wheel?

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