Candle light rims the glass on the table beside me. Fall is here, and the crunch of dry leaves like so many years passed and fallen. They might have been pencils had they not been the lovelier part of the tree. But their fate is past; they can’t go back.
I take a sip.
I will tell you a story about how I came to live in Europe two decades ago from Los Angeles, and about why I chose to stay. But tomorrow. Tonight, the candles melt and fade, the clock ticks hours into the silence, and the Brunello is nearly gone.
I’ll bring another bottle back with me from Torino this weekend. Coming?