I told her it was champagne—the ginger ale. She giggled, saying the bubbles tickled her nose and complimented my refined taste.
She had a glass at dinner, another with dessert, and another on the patio of my apartment.
“Chance,” she said, grabbing my hand as she wobbled on bare feet, “You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?” Her doe eyes twinkled with a thousand stars.
“Of course not.” I smiled, leaning in for a kiss—the ginger ale sweet on her lips.
Squeezing my hand, she pulled me inside. I closed the door.
Feel free to leave your short pieces of fiction (<100 words) in the comments below. The word for today is Champagne.