flipped. I get a little wine in me, spot an attractive woman, and it’s all over. It’s probably a product of being alone this last year.”
“Dani’s got it going on, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah, Dani’s great. But I don’t know if we’d have a whole lot in common other than wine and sex.”
Jack pointed his glass of Pinot at me and peered over the bridge of his sunglasses. “What else is there?”
“True. Though every now and then it’s kind of nice to engage in an aesthetic discussion, debate whether the films of Bresson still hold up or not, I don’t know.”
“You’re too picky, Miles.”
“No, I’m not,” I objected.
“Okay, tell me. What are you looking for?”
I thought for a moment. “Someone who can accept the reality of my life, who doesn’t barrage me with recriminations for the path I’ve chosen. However potholed at times it might seem.”
“Who’s that? A Bedouin?” Jack chomped into his sandwich.
“You get enjoyment out of my suffering, don’t you?”
“Actually, no. I want to see you succeed, meet someone, and get out of this rut—if that’s possible.”
I refilled our glasses. The wine smoothed the barbed edges of Jack’s words. The warm sun felt good on my bare arms. The soothing quiet of our surroundings was broken only by the intermittent melodies of unseen birds, the faroff rise and fall of a dog’s barking, and the wind rustling the leaves of the giant oaks. It all seemed to transport me to another realm, if only for a fleeting moment.
I held up my wineglass to Jack. “This is a good quaff.”
He smiled amiably. “Think I should spring for a few bottles?”
“It’s worth it. We may not drink a better wine all week.”
Jack nodded. “Where do you think we should stay?”
“Three choices.”
“Hit me with ’em.”
I held up my index finger. “Windmill Inn. Actually, it’s the Day’s Inn Windmill now, but I refuse to acknowledge the corporate takeover. We call it the Windmill.”
“What’s it like?”
“Your basic no-frills square crib, pool, and Jacuzzi, but that’s about it.” I straightened my middle finger. “Marriott. Higher end. Nicer rooms, better pool.” Then, my ring finger. “Ballard B&B. Quaint Victorian. Probably not the place to be stumbling into from an all-day wine-tasting spree.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “Fuck the B&B. I’m not into rules and curfews and shit. What’s the Marriott a night?”
“Probably two, unless you can sweet-talk your way into a corporate rate.”
“Screw it. Let’s do the Windmill. We’re not going to be in the room much anyway.”
“Fine with me.” I refilled our glasses until the bottle was empty. The sun had started to arc down in the sky, creating elongated shadows through the trees. Jack and I kibitzed about some recent movies, agreeing that it had been a mostly uninspired year. We polished off the Pinot, hauled ourselves off the picnic bench, and bought two more bottles of the La Rinconada. Then we climbed back into the 4Runner, a little slaphappy, and motored off toward Buellton.
The sky had turned a deeper shade of blue, streaked with wispy, scarf-shaped clouds of pale orange as we rolled into the Windmill Inn. It was a two-story, 100-odd-unit generic motel in Buellton, a highway pit-stop town of a few thousand inhabitants that was deafeningly bisected by the 101. The drive-up entrance to the motel was ruled over by a large, nonfunctioning windmill, a weather-eroded anomaly indicating the presence of nearby Solvang, an ersatz town founded in the early 1900s by Danish educators who sadly
We were a little high when we reeled into the lobby, laughing about something silly.
“Cheryl!” I called out to the desk clerk, a pretty dishwater blonde in her late twenties who knew me from past trips and always greeted me warmly.
“Miles. Haven’t seen you in a while.” Cheryl smiled, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. “Up to play some golf?”
“Golf. Wine tasting. The whole nine
“Dani’s got it going on, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah, Dani’s great. But I don’t know if we’d have a whole lot in common other than wine and sex.”
Jack pointed his glass of Pinot at me and peered over the bridge of his sunglasses. “What else is there?”
“True. Though every now and then it’s kind of nice to engage in an aesthetic discussion, debate whether the films of Bresson still hold up or not, I don’t know.”
“You’re too picky, Miles.”
“No, I’m not,” I objected.
“Okay, tell me. What are you looking for?”
I thought for a moment. “Someone who can accept the reality of my life, who doesn’t barrage me with recriminations for the path I’ve chosen. However potholed at times it might seem.”
“Who’s that? A Bedouin?” Jack chomped into his sandwich.
“You get enjoyment out of my suffering, don’t you?”
“Actually, no. I want to see you succeed, meet someone, and get out of this rut—if that’s possible.”
I refilled our glasses. The wine smoothed the barbed edges of Jack’s words. The warm sun felt good on my bare arms. The soothing quiet of our surroundings was broken only by the intermittent melodies of unseen birds, the faroff rise and fall of a dog’s barking, and the wind rustling the leaves of the giant oaks. It all seemed to transport me to another realm, if only for a fleeting moment.
I held up my wineglass to Jack. “This is a good quaff.”
He smiled amiably. “Think I should spring for a few bottles?”
“It’s worth it. We may not drink a better wine all week.”
Jack nodded. “Where do you think we should stay?”
“Three choices.”
“Hit me with ’em.”
I held up my index finger. “Windmill Inn. Actually, it’s the Day’s Inn Windmill now, but I refuse to acknowledge the corporate takeover. We call it the Windmill.”
“What’s it like?”
“Your basic no-frills square crib, pool, and Jacuzzi, but that’s about it.” I straightened my middle finger. “Marriott. Higher end. Nicer rooms, better pool.” Then, my ring finger. “Ballard B&B. Quaint Victorian. Probably not the place to be stumbling into from an all-day wine-tasting spree.”
Jack nodded in agreement. “Fuck the B&B. I’m not into rules and curfews and shit. What’s the Marriott a night?”
“Probably two, unless you can sweet-talk your way into a corporate rate.”
“Screw it. Let’s do the Windmill. We’re not going to be in the room much anyway.”
“Fine with me.” I refilled our glasses until the bottle was empty. The sun had started to arc down in the sky, creating elongated shadows through the trees. Jack and I kibitzed about some recent movies, agreeing that it had been a mostly uninspired year. We polished off the Pinot, hauled ourselves off the picnic bench, and bought two more bottles of the La Rinconada. Then we climbed back into the 4Runner, a little slaphappy, and motored off toward Buellton.
The sky had turned a deeper shade of blue, streaked with wispy, scarf-shaped clouds of pale orange as we rolled into the Windmill Inn. It was a two-story, 100-odd-unit generic motel in Buellton, a highway pit-stop town of a few thousand inhabitants that was deafeningly bisected by the 101. The drive-up entrance to the motel was ruled over by a large, nonfunctioning windmill, a weather-eroded anomaly indicating the presence of nearby Solvang, an ersatz town founded in the early 1900s by Danish educators who sadly
We were a little high when we reeled into the lobby, laughing about something silly.
“Cheryl!” I called out to the desk clerk, a pretty dishwater blonde in her late twenties who knew me from past trips and always greeted me warmly.
“Miles. Haven’t seen you in a while.” Cheryl smiled, revealing nicotine-stained teeth. “Up to play some golf?”
“Golf. Wine tasting. The whole nine
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