“You could say that,” Monroe drawls, and Roxanne snorts out a laugh.
I push the menu away. “Am I missing something here?”
“Not at all,” Monroe assures me, in a very un-reassuring tone. I’m about to ask if there’s something I should apologize for, or even offer to leave, when the expression on her face softens just slightly enough for me to notice. “Sorry. We’re just joking around. We do come here often. Very often.”
“Then I’m sorry if I offended you earlier.”
“Don’t say sorry to me.” She pats the table in front of her. “Say sorry to Taverne Toulouse. No promises she’ll accept it, though.”
Zach interrupts what I think might be the first real smile she’s given me when he arrives back at the table to take Monroe and Roxanne’s order for identical pints of Shock Top. I ask for the house red and watch them all bite their lips to hold back what I’m sure is the desire to laugh at me.
“Right. House red. Coming up.”
“There’s red wine here?” Roxanne asks after Zach has disappeared. “And it’s on themenu?” She turns to me. “And youordered it?”
“I like wine.”
Truth be told, saying Ilikewine is the same as saying a Mazeratti is agoodcar or that Shakespeare’s plays areokay. Some people look at a glass of merlot and see a classy way to get drunk. I see the sun beating down on the vineyards. I feel the hot earth of the hills in Bordeaux under my dirt-covered feet. I hear my father’s voice in my ear as he lifted me up to reach the twisting vines, whispering tales about the journey the grapes in my hand would go on, how far they would travel, all that they would do and become.
Wine is a story just waiting to tell itself to those who know how to listen. Every bottle started with a seed and someone willing to get their hands dirty, someone who saw potential where others saw nothing and then inspired them to see it too. Every step of that journey manifests in the flavours you taste, like ink strokes bleeding onto a blank page.
“Too good for beer?”
Monroe’s watching me, the pommel of the sword glinting at her side again.
“Wine has more...”
I want to say something like ‘depth’ or ‘complexity,’ something the captures way wine can steal all your senses for a moment and make you forget everything but pleasure. I don’t intend to fail another one of her tests, though, and insulting her drink of choice after I’ve already insulted her bar of choice doesn’t seem like the way to do that.
“It has more flavour,” I finish.
She tilts her water glass towards me. “Then you can’t have had any good beers.”
“Good beers like Shock Top? Their mascot is atalking orange.”
So much for not insulting her again, but the shot was so easy to take it slipped out of my mouth. To my surprise, Monroe laughs. It’s not just a chuckle or a quick snort; it’s a full-bodied sound, rich and unrelenting, like church bells on Sunday morning. It’s a sound you pay attention to.
“Okay, I admit it. That one was...low hanging fruit.”
Roxanne makes a face as Monroe gives her a sly grin that hints at an inside joke.
“You know I hate that phrase,” Roxanne complains. “It just makes me thing of...of...”
Now that I’ve made Monroe laugh, I suddenly want to prove I can do it again. It’s not the most distinguished thing to say, but I go ahead and finish the thought Roxanne is clearly trying to voice.
“Saggy balls?”
She snaps her fingers. “Exactly!”
Monroe claps a hand over her mouth, but not before I hear her snort. It’s an adorable snort. We all give in and chuckle when the server comes back and sets the foaming orange pints down, announcing, “Some fruity beer for you, ladies.” He blinks around the table for a moment and then asks, “Did I miss something?”
“Only if you like saggy balls,” Roxanne supplies.
His eyebrows only jump up for a second before he shakes his head. “I like to keep things sag-free. This wine might be a little...saggy, though. Drink at your own peril. I had to dig it out from under the bar.”
He places a cheap-looking wine glass down in front of me and heads off to check on a couple who just walked in the door.
“Well?” Monroe asks as I take my first sip.
