Page 67 of Que Será, Syrah

Went to my lover—what would he say?

Champagne, Prosecco, or Sparkling Rosé,

To serve on our wedding day?

“He said… Que Será Syrah

All three sound just great to me,

Or maybe a Pinot Gris?

Que Será Syrah

Or maybe, Chablis?

“Now when my sisters come to me,

I know the questions, before they ask,

Steel vat or barrel, qvevri or cask,

Bottle, or box or flask?

“And I say… Que Será Syrah

Whatever you do; do you

Just pour me a glass, or two,

Que Será Syrah

What will be, Chablis!

She finishes with an enthusiastic flourish, and I find myself wanting to cheer and applaud. Her bike-riding followers clearly feel the same urge. For the next thirty-or-so seconds the ding-ding-ding of a dozen (give or take) bike bells fill the air, flushing birds (and the occasional small mammal) out of the vegetation on both sides of the road.

The raucous noise is not exactly a pleasant sound. And while it’s not triggering, per se, it’s close enough to alarm bells that my heart rate spikes. I also find myself wondering whether it’s loud enough to qualify as a noise violation. An unlikely possibility, but one which—shit!—I do not want to have to address, right now. To distract myself, I run the words to the song she just sang over in my head.

The first and third verses are clearly autobiographical and at least semi-realistic. But it’s that second verse that’s got me curious.

Was she engaged, at some point? Or, worse yet, married? She’s never mentioned having any relationship after she left her mother’s house, and I know she moved around a lot. But it seems highly unlikely that she’s remained single all this time.

I rarely ever mention my exes, either. Unless I’m asked, or unless something specific comes up. Like it did with my laundry soap, which Legs asked me about after I’d washed and dried her clothes the night of the storm…

* * *

“A laundry soap subscription?” Legs sounds bemused. “Wow. I’ve never heard of that.”

“Neither had I.” I briefly consider mentioning the one for the bamboo toilet paper, but the conversation has already gotten weird, so I don’t.

“So, what’s your girlfriend—sorry, your ex—doing now?” Legs asks, exhibiting none of the jealousy I’m currently suffering from—and all over a potentially fictitious, make-believe boyfriend. Incredible.

I shrug disinterestedly. “All I know is that she moved back to San Francisco. She was always more of a city girl. Napa was a little too rural for her liking.”

“You don’t keep in touch?”

“No. Why would we?”

“Well, you shared a life, didn’t you?”

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