Ithaca Vineyard

As I walk through the vineyard, I can't help but be reminded of your green smoldering eyes caressing my body. Your touch is so exquisitely delicate and full of infinite passion. I daydream of the next time your arms are around me, crushing me in a warm embrace.

I hear voices in the distance; the moans increase to a crescendo.

"Marta . . ."

"John . . ."

Recognizing your voice, I quietly walk down the path and peer through the vines. Yours eyes meet mine; her eyes also.

I whisper . . . "How could you?"

I run through the green haze and collapse in despair.

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