For now, she took out the pinot, found clean stemware in the cabinet, and poured herself a glass. The wine was cold and brought back memories of the first time she had drunk pinot grigio. It was the summer between junior and senior years in college when she and her friend Leslie spent three weeks in the Umbrian hill towns of Italy. One warm night they stayed outside Spoleto and bought bottles of chilled wine at a market. As they sat in the hotel’s stone courtyard, two Italian boys rode past on motorbikes. A few minutes later the boys returned. They were shy and spoke little English. They offered to take the girls for a ride. When Leslie declined, Eden invited the boys to share their wine.

They sat around the hotel’s shaky metal table—the taller boy, Giovanni, next to Leslie, and the other one, Ludo, beside Eden. At first, they spoke using hand gestures and Eden’s untested sophomore Italian. Then they broke off into two separate couple conversations.

Ludo had long black hair and dark eyes. He was twenty, studying to be an engineer. Eden had struggled to keep up with his Italian. He spoke with a lilting accent and called her E-den.

They drank glasses of the cold wine. The name, pinot grigio, Ludo said, meant gray pinecone. He demonstrated how to hold the glass under her nose and smell the flowers and citrus. Eden loved the wine’s cold, green flavor. After the third glass, she stopped trying to translate what the boy said and imagined his words to be an ancient lyrical poem.

Giovanni took out his phone and played Italian pop songs. He stood and gestured with his arms, inviting the girls to dance. Ballare, he said, taking Leslie’s hand. Ballare.

Ludo and Eden danced with one arm around each other, their right hands holding a glass of wine. Ludo taught her to raise the glass, so he could see her beautiful face. Bel viso. He leaned close so she felt his soft hair on her cheek. He gently kissed her neck. She laughed and felt herself in a wonderful familiar dream.

Ludo paused in their dance. He kissed one ear and whispered the only English words he knew, taught by a visiting nun. “Mon-tan-a,” he said. “Col-or-a-do.” Eden giggled at the boy’s silliness. But she heard the earnestness in his voice as he spoke the words slowly, musically, syllable by syllable. Intoxication wrapped her in a cloud. His words became a happy dizziness.

Then Ludo drank from his glass and kissed her slowly on the lips, and she tasted the wonderful cold wine in his kiss.