"If you've finished the ending of your smutty graphic novel, I've arranged a vineyard tour for us," he whispers in my ear.
"It's very tasteful," I whisper back, "And I'll never turn down wine."
Although it is strange-for all our success at the wine tasting with Brandon, we seem to have bungled every single vintage in Paris. Surely now that we've moved into the Loire Valley, the country air will sharpen our senses.
I still can't freaking believe I funded a semester's worth of French travels with my freaking Tumblr page.
Did I once say life is hell? Life is just a real surprise, is all. Surprises around every corner. I stand and stretch, rolling my shoulders to relieve the tension of typing for so long. Yeah, I know, cry me a river, right? I was typing the end of my book at a little café in France while my boyfriend arranged outings and wandered through bookshops.
I scrape my hair, now faded to the most appropriate shade of lavender, up into a ponytail and toss my computer in my bag. It's only a short drive to the vineyard, and I share my concern with Marc on the way.
"I mean, have we gotten bad at wine? Do we get worse at wine the better we get at sex?" I feel that these are legit concerns.
"Oh. No, I slipped that wine guy a twenty to give me the tasting notes. You didn't guess I was cheating? We are really, really bad at wine." He laughs, and merrily slides into a parking space. "Ready?"
I burst out laughing, and open my door. In retrospect, it makes way more sense that an afternoon of reading books didn't magically teach us how to taste. The point is that we just enjoy it, I suppose. An extremely stereotypical Frenchman greets us with the expected air kisses and glasses of something crisp and white, then begins to lead us around. I'm only half paying attention to him, because who can listen to a lecture when the sun is shining and you're stepping through grapevines and you're turning a corner and someone is presenting you with a diamond, and-
Wait. What?
"Look. We already share an address. I think it would be very economical if we shared a last name as well," Marc says, grinning as widely as I've ever seen. I slosh my wine over the edge of my glass in my haste to get it on my finger. Holy cats! I accept, of course, because I may have brought the color, but Marc is the frame to my life. He is the solid thing, the path forward, the constant in my days that brings meaning.
He's also really not poetic, so when I add an epilogue to Screwmates, I'll change his wording.