“Thought so. A gift from a friend. I really don’t drink the stuff.”
Presenting a fine bottle of French red, her friend knows wine.
“Just sipping on some Chardonnay, Mrs. Anderson. I like it crackling cold... among oenophiles, considered as a shortcoming.”
She smiles, responding to my gesture to enter with bold unfeminine steps. I envision her strolling about that juvenile prison, jackbooted, her presence most authoritative.
“Well... if it’s cold I drink it.”
Just as well. Tonight’s selection is a particularly pretentious attempt by an Argentinean vineyard to replicate what the French have perfected. It will not be objectionable to she who apparently drinks anything cold.
“I’ll get a glass.”
With the loft one large open room, except for the partitioned bathroom area, Sunny’s hangin
