Feet hanging from the deck of the bow, sitting shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. I can’t help but wonder in what ways the salt air is dancing off of the sound and over our taste buds, changing the way we read the Prosecco between us.
I almost didn’t bring this bottle. The thought of opening the cage— six half-turns forward, wrapping my palm around the wire frame, twisting the bottle, by the base, off of the cork— it all seemed like too much.
There are too many ways to mess it up, and I know that I don’t have a grip on anything when I am around you, but I no longer believe that bottles should be left uncorked.