15.
 Next time they met to eat, it was a picnic high up in the field above Antonio's station. They drove her car into the shadow of the trees and left it hidden. Few people ever wandered up here, so big and spread out was the land and so thin the population. It was a warm day, not too hot. He wore a crisp white shirt, jeans, and deck shoes. She wore one of her long dresses, this one a dark brown corduroy that left her shoulders bare, and some sort of awkward looking but obviously very comfortable sandals. They walked at a steady pace through the woods, he carrying a basket she'd made up, and she a bottle of wine that he'd bought at her request. "It's so quiet here," she said. They heard a bird fly by. They heard a twig drop from a tree a hundred feet away with an echo as though it were in a large room. Then they came out in the clearing. It was warm there, and the wind hummed in their ears. "I've never been here before! And it's so gorgeous. Oh Tom, thank you. It's so wonderful."
"I'm glad you like it."
They sat overlooking the miles of green, the velvety dark shadows between the far peaks, the gently furling lines of sedimentation in distant limestone cliffs. A pair of eagles whirled high up, their wings gently undulating. "Boy," Tom said, "this is quite some lunch. Wow, look at this. Look at that." She'd brought little crocks with all sorts of good things in them. Brie, which they set in the sun, on a plate, to melt. They sat with the basket between them and ate quietly. They washed it down with bottled water. Afterwards they opened the wine and had some crusty French rolls and some tangy cheddar cheese. The wine was a medium pinot noir, a little rough, but not too dry nor too sweet. She studied the label. "This looks interesting. Oh I love the color, Tom. It's like garnet."
"Hold it up to the light."
She did. "It is just like garnet. Look."
Heart beating a little faster, he moved the picnic basket out of the way and slid close beside her. He smelled garlic on her breath, felt her warmth by his side, felt his thigh touching hers. "It's a beautiful color," he agreed.
"Will you open it?"
"Sure." He looked around.
"Corkscrew's in the basket."
"You thought of everything."
"I planned a picnic. I'm good at planning things. Some men don't like that."
"I don't mind." He held the bottle and turned the corkscrew.
She smiled to herself, holding her arms around her knees, contentedly looking into the distance. Without further instructions, he found the wine glasses—real crystal, with roses engraved in the sides—and poured. The wine had a heady bouquet.
"Thank you," she said, raising her glass.
He clinked his glass against hers.
They sipped slowly, savoring. She sighed and stretched, yawning. Then she laughed. "I'm sorry."
"It's the oxygen up here," he said. "The wind makes me sleepy too. It's very relaxing up here."
"Hmmm," she sighed, closing her eyes and turning her face to the sun. It was late, and just warm enough. She folded her arms together and cupped her bare shoulders in her hands.
He found her sweater in the basket and held it up. "Would you like me to—?"
She nodded and turned her back to him. He put the sweater over her shoulders and then, somehow, she leaned against him and he put his arms around her, careful not to touch with his hands. Without knowing what he was doing, he bent down and nuzzled behind her ear, letting the dangling hair tickle his nose. He smelled violets and pinot noir. "I'm sorry," he said without conviction. His eyes were closed and all he saw were wine blots. She felt soft yet still solid in his arms. She was very still. "I love to hear you talk."
She uttered one of her cutting laughs that said she was well in control, and sat up. "Maybe after a while you won't anymore when I really get going."
"I meant, I love the way your voice sounds."
She rose and walked toward the edge, where the ground gently sloped down before disappearing into the canyon. Somewhere far below, Tom heard barking. He walked up and gently put an arm around Eve, ready to desist if she said no. But she didn't. Her arm slipped around his waist. Her hand was heavy, and her fingers were solid, drumming with their tips against the ticklish skin of his waist. "I hear Sapphire barking," Tom said.
"Is that her? Your dog?" She turned toward him, trusting him. He knew something about the world.
"Antonio's dog," Tom said, taking her in his arms.
She laughed. "Tom's girl." Meaning herself, in his arms.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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