When the wine landed full on my palate, it seemed that he’d brought depth to my world. A single glass of white could recall oysters and brine and lovers’ spit and citrus fruits and sunburn, a glass of red grass and dirt and blackberry, blackberry, blackberry. Like the line from the poem Jude read aloud to me that afternoon in my concrete backyard, the pavement cracked with weeds, while we sat on the chipped garden furniture eating prosciutto with pearls of melon, smoked salmon with crème fraiche, cheese layered on thick crusts of bread, truffle honey, strong black coffee. How elegant he
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