To be perfectly franc, my dear, I don't give a damn

The wine was young. And so was he. But he had the most magnificent beard.

"Is it weird if I ask to stroke it," I whispered to my companion.

She looked at me, askance. "Yeah, you're right." I sighed. Instead, when he returned and asked if there was anything else he could do for us, I asked "can I try your Cab Franc?"

His face lit up. "Nobody appreciates Cab Franc," he said, excitedly. He returned with two bottles.

"Double the fun," I mumbled, my mind going in inappropriate directions. He poured me two generous glasses.

"On the house," he said, and perhaps he winked. I was seeing double by this point.

The Cab Franc was delightful. Candied violets, purple fruits, silky mouthfeel. I still wish I'd stroked his beard. It looked silky, too.


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