Reading doesn’t start with the first sentence. It starts with the first sip.

I hadn’t thought about it before. Not really. But sitting down to write, it became obvious. Where I am, what I have around me: those things open small possibilities. And the book quietly gains another layer.

I like reading at the kitchen table, when it’s still messy from before. It sounds insignificant, but the place decides more than we admit. It decides the glass, the temperature, how much space the book is allowed to take.

When I read, I don’t want a drink that interrupts. Nothing too cold, nothing too loud. Reading already asks enough; the drink shouldn’t compete.

I want the sip to disappear right after it happens, to leave space, to let the words stay.

what comes with the book

There are many drinks I enjoy while reading. It always depends on the book. And yes, more often than not, I find myself with a glass of red wine in my hand…surprise, surprise.

Nothing heavy, nothing that needs explaining. A red that stays open, soft at the edges. Something I can forget about and then notice again, right as I turn the page.

But not always.

Once, while reading The Vegetarian, all I wanted was a Dark and Stormy. No reason I could explain properly. Just the feeling that the book was asking for something darker, sharper, with a bit of tension underneath.

I don’t choose what to drink by rules. I listen. Sometimes it’s wine. Sometimes it’s something completely different. The sip comes first, and the rest follows.

I don’t always know what I’m about to read. But I usually know what I’m about to drink. And somehow, that’s enough to begin.