Montepulciano

There were times, though, weren’t there, when we used to make each other laugh? Like the puppy that peed all over your carefully polished shoes, remember, when you bent down to pet it? Or that guy who drowned. That moonless night on the way home from somebody’s birthday. We decided to walk by the lake and I was holding your hand and your teeth were shining. Naturally we heard him before we saw him, and we weren’t all that sure we could see him, we only saw him a little, didn’t we? All that splashing and gurgling, incoherent. Then it all stopped. One of us, was it me, suggested stopping somewhere for a drink, just to sit down, after that. You were always so polite to servers. We both ordered Montepulciano but didn’t say, for once, that we always wanted to go there. And we were looking at each other’s drained faces and then, who knows who started it, we burst into laughter, so explosive that other tables on the patio looked at us. Those moments matter, even now. I want you to know that.