The surf pounds the white sand beach. Let’s grope, he says. She rolls her eyes, ready to act passive aggressively once again. Fine, she says.

She kisses his chest and he says, I shoot pheasants. Are they cute? she asks. Not after I shoot them, he replies. And then she gets to work.

The sommelier took pity on my hesitation, and afterward, I found her in my bed, where she took even more pity, and I never drank wine again.