The wine manager and I picnicked endlessly. He organized it all in a large basket manufactured expressly for the purpose, with special slots for the cutlery and a long, tubular compartment to snug the bottle. He selected a different vintage for every meal and carefully chose the foods to best enhance its flavor.
He was slightly older than I, with thin white hair and a body that might not be disagreeable. I had been styling my hair suggestively for years. These days, I wore it in the traditional crop of the elderly. Before that, I’d spun it ’round and ’round like a silken cone—wrapped in an airy scarf.
Here at last was the calm life. On his checkered blanket, spread across the grass of some park or other, we would sit until the large plants around us began to cast man-shaped shadows.
Try this, he said. What he offered was refreshing—something dry, cold, deeply pink, lightly bitter—slightly spitting. It crackled in my ear like a big black fly can.