The Valentine’s Feast

Corinne arrived at 8 p.m. sharp with her wicker picnic basket. She spread her patchwork quilt across the frozen ground, sat down cross-legged, and began to unload the contents of the basket onto the quilt between them.

“Hello Paul, I can’t believe it’s been another year.”

After the meal was neatly arranged, she removed a bottle of Prosecco from a sling and retrieved a wine glass from the basket.

“First, a toast. Mionetto, my favorite. Remember the New Year’s Eve Andrew tried to sabre the champagne? We watched the ball drop in the ER. To another 20 years!” She raised her glass and took a swig. Then, she gathered a small mound of dirt, made a divot with her forefinger, and poured the rest of the glass into the hole. “Cheers!”

“Now, the appetizer. I know you didn’t care for the Provençal tapenade I made last year. Of course I should have known—you never let me get anchovies on my pizza. Try this, prosciutto-wrapped melon balls.” Corinne presented two miniature skewers. She fished the melon off hers and popped it into her mouth. Then she gathered a second pile of dirt, this time rotating her thumb to make a hole in the center. The prosciutto-wrapped melon ball went down the hole.

“Quiet a moment, while I refill my Prosecco.”

Corinne lifted a thermos from the blanket. “Next, monsieur, we have a beef bone, a bone broth, whatever the fuck—you’ll love it, of course, you bougie snob.” She dipped a silver spoon into the thermos and presented a sample of the marrow to Paul. “Bon voyage!” She cackled while gathering a cone of dirt between her thumb and index finger. She poured the remaining contents of the thermos onto the cone. The broth ran down the side and pooled on the blanket around her wool skirt. “Shit,” she muttered and stood up, patting herself dry with a napkin from her lap. “Don’t get up.” Once she had recomposed herself, she continued. “Before our next course, a palate cleanser—raspberry sorbetto.” She spooned a smidge of the gelato onto her lips and smeared it around gleefully, then leaned over and gave the earth a soft kiss. “What will the neighbors say?”

“For our main, a veal roulade. Here, sweetheart, let me feed it to you.”

She cut a piece and moved it toward Paul like an airplane into a hangar, “Incoming!” before flipping the forkful onto the ground. “Such a messy eater.” Corinne took a bite for herself. “Delicious. More bubbly, darling? No? More for me.” She took a large gulp from the bottle. Corinne shivered; it was starting to snow lightly. “Are you cold? Here, take my scarf.” She took off her pink crocheted scarf and wrapped it around Paul. “It’s a good look.” She giggled. “Of course, you can’t have dessert without a digestif.” Corinne produced a bottle of limoncello and took a swig before pouring half the liqueur onto the ground. “So you don’t catch cold, your mother’s remedy.” Then she gathered the mess of food and soggy dirt into an enormous pyramid, pressing the sides with her hands as if she were building a sandcastle.

“And for the finale, your favorite.” She held out a plastic cup filled with tiramisu, opened the lid, and dumped it onto the heap with a splat. She sat silently for a few minutes, sipping from the frosty bottle of limoncello. After the bottle was finished, she packed the leftovers and empty vessels back into the basket. She stood up and shook off the quilt before folding it into a triangle. “You can keep the scarf. Til next year, my love.” Corinne rested her hand on Paul for a moment, unable to look him in the eye. She picked up the basket and stumbled off toward her car as the snow began to fall harder.