The harvest came in after sundown, the way it always does here.
Crates of dark grapes sit half full on a stone terrace. A carafe of something red is already open. Below the terrace, rows of vines have turned the colour of the wine, running down the hillside toward a valley slowly filling with mist. On the crest of the far hill, a gothic manor keeps a few windows lit.
This is two hours of that particular hour, the one between the work ending and the night beginning. Warm cello, soft guitar, crickets in the vines, and nothing that needs deciding yet.
Made for the books where two people who should not like each other end up sharing a table anyway.
