Rita doesn't drink all that heavily. She doesn't like the loss of control that comes with any kind of substance - she liked it even less when she saw how it so thoroughly destroyed Paul and everything she might have loved about him. But sometimes, she indulges in a little white wine, preferably fruity (but never Chardonnay, her mother's drink).
She's never drank red. It feels too much like she's swallowing blood, and she can't help but shiver when she sees Dexter partake of it on their rare nights out.
Tonight is one of those nights where she indulges, and she finds herself not stopping at simply one glass. She swirls the liquid in her glass, watches it sparkle like melted crystal and inhales the scent of her fermented grapes. She feels at peace and finds herself all too willing to forget Dexter's mistakes and transgressions, her daughter's wary sadness, and her dead deadbeat husband.
There is only one person she cannot seem to forget. She cannot ever seem to dislodge Lila from her consciousness, cannot manage to forget about that skin two steps beyond alabaster and those curves that were more dangerous than anyone anticipated. Dexter tells her that she's gone with so much assuredness she cannot help but believe him, but in truth, Lila will never really be gone. Rita remembers Lila every time she lights a match and every time she heard chimes sing in the wind.
She pauses in swirling the wine around the glass and stares at it for a moment. And then she gets to her feet, walks over to the window, and throws the remaining liquid out the window.
"Here's to you, bitch."