Wine Cellar — 1855
There was no way anyone would actually confuse blood for wine, or wine for blood. Not in real life. Not if they really knew anything about either.
Wine rarely dried the crusty rust red that blood did. He’d seen a deep ruby red wine dried on a cork before, as if it had been stamped into a puddle of wet blood, but once blood was dry, it no longer looked like that.
Besides, it was too thin.
He held up his wine glass and admired the burgundy color of his port. It did seem to ignite bloodlust, however. The deep, liquid red. The biting flavor. The way it stained clothing. It was very much like blood in many ways.
He had sometimes been accused of having wine in his veins instead of blood. His wine ratings were respected near and far. He was rarely seen without a bulbous wine glass clutched in his fist in those days.
He took in a deep breath, savoring the scent of the wine, but also the scent of freshly dug earth. They said a wine connoisseur had finely honed senses of smell, not just for smelling wine. Every scent was more potent and more distinct when you made your living by your nose.
The wine cellar, his pride and joy, was newly dug and furnished. Centuries worth of wine lay nestled in wooden racks, tilted at just the right angles to keep the corks moist but not oversaturated and just the right temperature so the flavor would be perfect when poured.
Not everyone understood his obsession, however. His wife tended to be resentful of how much time he spent drinking, or drinking and spitting, or drinking and talking with his fellow wine connoisseurs.