Leonora tells me her father bottled a new Moscato vinegar when each of his children were born.
“They’re presented with it when they marry.”
What if they don’t marry? I want to ask, but don’t. My ring is too tight on my finger. I wish I could let it fall onto the vineyard’s ground to be lost among damp leaves.
The best vinegar is sweet and sharp at once, with a hint of liquorice, she tells me.
“Like an old nonna.”
She gazes at me through her eyelashes until I blush.
I’ve been married for twelve long years. My husband’s preferred nickname for me is Vinegar Tits.
He doesn’t mean it as a compliment.
He’s shown me time passing only sours things.
Leonora disagrees. She leads me into the chill of the cellars, where vinegar rests in English oak barrels for twelve years or more.
Fermenting vinegar oozes from the barrels in thick dark drips that trickle down to pool on the tiles.
The strong, honeyed smell makes my stomach grumble.
Leonora’s lips twitch into a smile. “You must be hungry for something,” she says. “We’ll taste the vinegar with grana cheese.”
She watches me swallow. Sweet and sharp, she murmurs, and her exhalation tickles my cheek.
I picture us sitting here like this when we’re as old as nonnas, and I turn my face towards her breath.
Judy Darley is the author of The Stairs are a Snowcapped Mountain, Sky Light Rain and Remember Me to the Bees. Her words have been
shared aboard boats, in museums and on BBC Radio. She occasionally
infiltrates poetry open mic nights with micro stories. Find Judy at
@judydarley.bsky.social
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