The Napa Curve

The sun was dropping low, painting the vines in molten gold. She had spent the afternoon smiling politely, sipping wine, pretending the conversation didn’t bore her to pieces. Every word from across the table was a reminder of how small her world could feel if she let it.

The winding road home called louder than the clink of another glass. She excused herself, slipped away across the gravel courtyard, and walked toward the car parked under a row of oaks. Her heels caught in the stones—one final reminder of the performance she had just left behind.

She kicked them off, tossed them onto the ground, and slid behind the wheel. The engine roared awake, echoing through the valley. Finally, she breathed.

Heels off. Engine on. Freedom.