It was supposed to be a conversation about the moon which, by the way, was looking lovely last evening. Instead it became a discussion on a romantic dinner. While this would not be out of the ordinary (for many a romantic dinner has been had under the moon) the path was interesting. The discussion had moved from the moon to a lifetime ago sitting in front of an old tv on the green carpet. Danger mouse, or some other rodent based cartoon was playing. A moon landing revealed that the moon was indeed made of cheese.
Which then made you hungry.
You relocated to the kitchen where the conversation turned to cheese. ‘The chili chive cheddar is really good.’ This is a name you only like because it alliterates. Even as this discussion is happening you grated mozzarella from the frozen section of the (un)supermarket down the road. Then you sat on the kitchen floor eating pizza made from toasted bread, a paste of onions and tomatoes, yesterday’s beef and cheese. It was fantastic. It was horrible. It was okay.
And there’s no way you could have talked about cheese without talking about wine right? At least not when the dry microwave pizza was stifling conversation and there was half a bottle of merlot somewhere in the corner. Glasses and sips brought memories. That time in that place with that person when that thing happened. That other time in that other place. Stories of sneaking out of hotels with wine bottles. Stories of going to parties where the wine was flowing so hard that the host fell off her seat mid conversation. Stories of lack of wine and the grace of last week’s pockets. Journeys into pieces of history that would have otherwise faded away.
A point of motion.
The kitchen floor only allows for people to travel so far before the cold becomes a problem. The living room has seats – this became a good idea.
There’s something about the moving of bodies that shifts conversation. A re arranging of thought sparked rethinking. Where was the evening? Music. A new sound – it’s always a new sound. Something that is magic, not in the way yesterday was magic, but magic none the less. Beauty exists everywhere the real work is in seeing it. But where was the evening. No, listen to the music, can you not hear this?
(but where was the evening?)
Wine. French wine? Always French wine. Paris is as romantic as they say – a romantic. Conversations are gathered. A hotel room in Paris, a tale of lost luggage in an airport. A story of a lost shoe on the subway, not getting to see the Eiffel tower, getting to see the Eiffel tower. Dinner one evening with a former lover, in a quiet restaurant, in a small town in France, under the moon; which, by the way, was looking lovely last evening.