It was just like he told Rusty: Sharon was worth so much more than a night on the town. Boozing it up, hanging out with the guys…even if he wasn't an alcoholic, those were parts of an aging bachelor's life. No place for that in a committed relationship. He's never risk his relationship with Sharon over "a night on the town."

It was enough to taste the lingering musky fruit sweetness on her lips, when she kissed him after her evening glass of wine. To bend over her when he helped her into her chair and smell the aroma of sunny grass and mineral tang wafting up from her elegant stemmed glass.

He'd swilled gallons of vodka in his time, saving wine for meals and celebrations. he'd learned enough to be a decent dinner date, talking with the sommelier like he knew his way around vintages and appellations. He'd never really liked any of it that much; white, red, or that candy-flavored stuff in between.

He loved how it mellowed her out just a touch, just a little bit. If he thought about it, he could hear the soft sigh she gave after the first sip and found it was good. Sometimes her eyes would close for a second and her lips would turn up and he'd know this was a particularly good bottle. He'd started making mental notes of which winerys she preferred, which ones got a slight pucker of her mouth and a fleeting wrinkle of her nose.

Andy wondered if she was ever self-conscious over the one lone wineglass on the table. It was a mini-beacon announcing "here sits someone who never had an alcohol problem." He wondered if she drank wine every evening when she lived with Jack.

Did she miss having someone to share that with? Or was it a sign of how safe she felt with him? There'd been once or twice when she looked like she was getting ready to extend the glass to him, especially if it was one that she was trying for the first time. She always caught herself, always stayed her hand. If he hadn't been around her for years now, he might not have noticed.

The beer at the baseball games…that was worse. Baseball and beer were paired in his memories since he snuck his first beer into a ball field at sixteen. It was such a normal pairing…he'd been the one to watch his hands then, coming close to casually borrow her bottle for a long cool swallow the way couples do when they're sharing a hot dog and bad nachos and only one beer is left.

Maybe he could start drinking flavored water from one of her wine glasses. He almost wanted to mock himself for that image, his brash Brooklyn manhood twisted up over that LA cliche. His mouth watered just a little as he pictured clinking glasses and tilting his head back for a sparkling mouthful. Phantom tinglings in his blood stream made him tighten his lips. His mind could bring all that back if he let it.

His confidence he'd shown Rusty thinned around the edges. No, he'd never trade what he had with Sharon for a night on the town. But he could wish he could have it all, couldn't he? The ritual of shopping for the best bottle to go with one of Gus's meals, the uncorking and pouring, watching her eyes sparkle with anticipation. The normal, all-American stroll on the beach, a long-necked bottle in one hand, holding and touching with the other. A warming red with backbone and stone fruit when the LA nights turned chilly, out on the balcony?

It would be nice. It wouldn't be getting drunk. He'd been sober so long, and it wasn't as if it were hard liquor.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned back to his desk. He wondered what was in their refrigerator. Wondered what she'd pour tonight.

He wondered if his sponsor was home.