He picks the Page of Grails, so we both take a drink. That has to be it, right? It’s the wine making me notice the lines of his throat, how he missed the top button on his shirt in his haste. It’s only the wine gathering the firelight along his narrow jaw, the way his black hair falls over his brow, into something I find handsome. (It’s not the wine. I don’t want to talk about it.)
