It wasn’t a terribly steep climb up from the village: mostly an easy grade through olive groves, grape arbors, and more olives until it turned sharply upward toward the summit. They sat under a tree and unwrapped their lunch: bread and local cheese, two liters of water and a Vinho Verde, packed in ice and now sweating in its bottle.

The bread was still warm, a bonus with the cheese. He uncorked the wine and they drank it from the bottle. She took some water and he — always looking for a way to rouse her — picked up some ice and dropped it down her neck while she was breaking off another piece of bread. She gasped, but the truth was it felt good on this hot day. She flung a little water at him, and he picked up more ice and held it against her collar, letting it melt a bit against her skin before letting it slip down her front.

She looked hard at him, and then as if they could read each other’s thoughts — and perhaps they could — their lips met to create a perfect seal. Unfamiliar yesterday, no less thrilling today in its familiarity, in the heat of anticipation and still-new exploration.

After, they finished the wine and carried the bottle out with them: nothing left behind but a patch of flattened grass and some melting ice.