Friday, June 10, 2005

At the restaurant, out on the terrace with everyone, she was delighted that we’d decided to order rosé; she said again and again rosé is just perfect for weather like this and it was true, the heat. She gulped it with great pleasure and asked for more, which I poured for her. From time to time she became worried, a bit melancholy even, at the thought that it might be gone. Is there any more of that rosé? And yet there was, and I poured it, and she was happy.