Charlie’s wife Babs heard about a history professor who crafted wine cabinets, and thought it would be the perfect birthday present for him. They saw him one evening to pick the style, wood, and finish. A month later they brought the finished cabinet home in the back seat of the car and decided to have a dinner party for it. Babs invited the professor, her shrink, Paul Arnold, and his wife June. Charlie showed the menu to Haskell's, a fashionable wine dealer, and came away with nine bottles and precisely when and where to drink them during the meal.

The christening came about on a warmish evening, and Charlie uncorked #1, 1969 Weingut Muller Privat Rheinriesling Spatlese. The guests were into #3, 1974 Chateau Thivin Cote de Brouilly, when Paul and Babs went to the kitchen. The professor sampled the rogue bleu while he stared at the Girl with Red Chair—Brick Wall hanging over the fireplace: “She has a beautiful little body, hasn’t she?” he said, in anything but aesthetic detachment.

June leaned in, wearing a clingy red jersey knit. “You should see mine.”

“Can that be arranged?”

She laughed, “Mm-hmm.”

“In that dress?”

“It won’t kill you pro-fes-or.”

“Call me Al,” said the professor, reaching for the smoked salmon. “Here, taste this. It’s absolutely delicious.” June took a mouthful. “Mmm. What this room could use is more booze,” she said, filling their glasses.

“I could’ve done that.”

“What stopped you?”

“Leave the man alone!” Paul yelled from the kitchen.

“You can light my cigarette if you’re a mind to, Al.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Do you think we learn anything from history?” said June, releasing the smoke.

“I am the history department.”

“I get that,” whispered June, plopping down beside him on the couch. “Try me, Al.”

“OK. Myles Standish.”

“Myles Standish? Like when we came over from England and started populating the country?” June picked a piece of lint from Al’s black turtleneck, “What was he all about? Didn’t he marry Priscilla?”

The professor laughed. “Not a chance in hell. Myles couldn’t tell one woman from another. Priscilla craved his blonde lieutenant, John Alden, a tasty young man.”

 “Go on Al,” June urged, tucking her legs up for an eyeful.

The professor’s veins were popping. “Priscilla flat refused. She craved John, a tasty young man, and got his blood up: “John Alden, are you a gentleman? Speak for yourself.”

“Do you think she has nice hips?” asked June.

“Who?”

“The naked lady on the fireplace.”

“Jealous?”

“I have a Formula One ass. Ask Paul.”

Al rose. “Where’s the—”

“Down the hall, second door on the left,” Charlie said.

Entrees were served at the dining table in an alcove, with a pass-through to the kitchen: #5, 1970 Graves Superieures Chateau Belair, with fish, then cleansing palates with apple sorbet and a shot of Calvados before finishing with #6, Burgundy Cote-d-Or Macon Blanc Villages, and prime rib. For dessert, they left the dirty dishes on the table and spilled back into the living room to polish off #9, 1967 Mosel Ockfener Bockstein-Herrenberg Auslese.

When Babs left the room to check on the kids, June flared up: “You couldn’t keep your eyes off her tits all night, could you, Al?”

“Not as much as you did.”

“Kiss off.”

At the end of the evening, the professor and Charlie emerged from the house, holding onto blades of grass to keep from falling off the earth. Charlie poured him into his VW bug and watched it zigzag away.

A month later, Babs heard the professor was caught in a prostitution sting.

Caveat emptor.

The writer has an abiding interest in philosophy and the arts, and lives in Alton, Illinois, with a cat who doesn't like him. He is published in Proud to Be, Fleas on the Dog, Military Experience and theArts, Poets Choice, Drunk Monkeys, Wingless Dreamer, Kallisto Gaia Press, Gabby & Min, Free Spirit, nine others, radio and Story Collider.