There was one bottle of wine in her wine thing that was off limits. Other wines would be bought, drank, bought again; but this particular wine was not to be quaffed unless the most spectacular occasion presented itself. She waved away his contention that the opening of a nice bottle of wine was its own occasion, offering instead: “Do something deserving of recognition, and I will open this bottle. Just for you.” An obstinate sort, he committed to doing not one “…thing deserving of recognition,” but rather many:

He cured cancer. He deflected that big meteor that was projected to destroy earth. He saved poor children. He repaired her ugly relationship with her family. He was, like, totally okay with her guy friends. He fought with rebel forces.

She was impressed by the things he did and readied to open said bottle of wine, one evening, over candlelight. “Wait,” he said, touching her hand. “Everything bad is in there–poverty, jealousy, illness. If you open that bottle the world will go back to how it was.”

She set the bottle down and moved to kiss him. But she set it too close to the edge of the dining room table.