Three Valley Love

It is easy to fall in love with you over a glass of wine.

To sniff it is bliss upon bliss. Few things are as subtle as that strong note of red with other varieties of other reds. Old vine love with peppery spice, I dare not go into details for fear of your history lectures on zinfandel, petite sirah, carignane, mataro, syrah, and grenache.

Yes, I Googled them all. I googled our Three Valley wine, just like the researcher you fell in love with would.

::

I could not have imagined a more perfect dinner. Roasted duck with mandarin orange glaze and your favorite calamari and those pink red spots on my cheeks, with a dazzling waitress on our side…

…it was just like that one evening once more, in Indy in The Eagle with nobody to disturb us and to think that hours, weeks, months ago, I was paranoid and frustrated and definitely pissed off with the situations good Fate had brought us into, willingly or not,

yet, you were all worthwhile. You were worth my while.

I would not trade another moment for the one I had devour with you over saccharine sorbet of blood orange and lemon with buttermilk.

The question “what we were thinking??“—or what was I thinking—is of no consequence right now. Not to me, at least.

::

To humor your fantasies, and dare I dream again, I dream of us either in Venice or Rome or France or somewhere in Somali or Zimbabwe, having the warm summer breeze caress our cheeks and bare skins in shorts not tight as we laze beneath a great oak tree, watching them sheep or lions or zebras roam. Even goats would do.

I must say though, your cat has to be included. She is after all, an extension of your Self. Take good care of her then I can have faith you shall take healthy care of you and me.

With a glass of French wine in each our hand, we’d stroll along the dirty paths of vineyards of Southern France as you make small talks of grand-daddy stories as I’d patiently listen while my eyes dart between the expressions of semi-comprehensions between you and the wine-makers while my mind wanders to the ethical questions of our dinner that night: fois gras ou pas?

It is so delicious though. It’s a pity many just had to stuff globs of fats down their dainty swan-like throats.

::

Pandora’s playing a French song right now. I’m not sure why either. Perhaps everything is meant to be.

Peut-être.

What I do know for sure is that I await for the day our global American town stop raining billowing winds of Northern ice and snow and I can finally wear that swishy paisley psychedelic orange Bohemian skirt you got me once more.

It was your graduation gift to me. It is my graduation into the youth of adulthood.

It is me embracing life, the life the dreamer in you inspired.

::

I do, still think you are crazy, for everything you’ve said and done in my name, like what I said this evening when it was cold and raining and you wrapped your fancy eight-dollar jacket over my scantily clad legs, finishing with a knot over my slender waist.

“You’re crazy,” I laughed.

To which, of course, you said,

crazy for you.

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