It was a French Cabernet, a brand I knew that wasn't cheap.“Good wine,” I said, impressed.He asked if I knew wine. “Some — I'm not a sommelier... but I know my way around a wine store.”We discussed wine for a time on the ride toward North Shore, and I asked if he was headed to my town. He said, “No, Nahant but I wish I lived in your town.”I said I hated it and we laughed at some of the comparisons between the two. I asked what had made his company bad at the restaurant. “I was with a woman I’ve. You weren't sure?" I stuttered.One of her hands drifted up, brushed the side of her cheek, and went onto stroke the brief ponytail. "You have to admit, it's amazing." Uh, yeah," was the only reply I managed.For a few steps we walked along without saying anything. With the brightmorning sun, the suburban perfection broken only by the sound oflawnmowers, the pint-sized cutie at my side, it all seemed very muchlike a scene from a movie. But the smell of cut grass and gasolineseemed like more. More

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