The glass was cold and slick in my hand. Good white wine, French, sharp with the taste of green apples and wet stone. The sun burned low over the water, and the sea moved like something alive, restless and old.
I drank.
The wine was clean and bright, the kind that makes you close your eyes for half a second. The salt wind came in off the bay, cutting through the heat. Below the terrace, the tide pulled at the rocks, slow and patient. A gull screamed. Another answered.
Fishing boats swayed in the distance, their engines a low mutter against the waves. The cliffs stood gold in the late light, and the air smelled of iodine and warm thyme. A bee worked the lavender beside me. I watched it. It did not care that I was there.
I took another sip.
The wine was better now, softer at the edges. The sun had warmed it just enough. Out past the bay, the horizon blurred where the sky met the water. Two cormorants flew black against the light, heading for the rocks.
A child shouted down on the beach. The sound carried up the cliff face, clear and wordless. Then the wind took it.
I finished the wine. The glass was empty, the last drop clinging to the rim. The sea darkened. The first star showed itself, pale above the water.
I sat there a long time, listening to the waves. The light faded. The air grew cool. Nothing was lost. Nothing was needed.
It was enough.
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