In the style of Cormac McCarthy:
It was as pretty a night as he could remember out of a great plenty of such nights. They stood on a rise of the pavement outside of 98 South. Dinner was over. She nudged a poignant finger outward. She motioned to the aged structure lighted by lanterns manufactured to resemble something much older. Inside of them burned incandescent bulbs instead of oil.
To the Winery? the girl said.
Absolutely.
Good.
They enter and notice the smell of cooked meat. Like roasted lamb. Hunger was not a pressing issue so they ignore the olfactory coaxing. A casket black book with a single leaflet is presented by a woman. They rifle through the wine selections inside.
What is it?
Nothing.
See anything you like?
Nothing is capturing my interest.
Mine either.
I'll have the Zinfandel i guess.
Okay.
I think I'll have the Pinot.
Good.
They sit on the outdoor patio and notice the light dusting of antique decor. Neither is sure of its authenticity.
How is your wine?
Its average.
Mine too.
Actually I don't really like it.
Far too peppery. I wouldn't recommend the Zin.
Try it?
The girl drank it and handed it back
Drink some more.
You drink it.
Okay, finish yours quickly and lets go
They sat in the patio and looked out in the parking lot and the brewery beyond and the festive atmosphere within.
To the Brewery? she said
You mean it?
Sure.
They couldn't get out of the winery quickly enough as they waded the foot traffic and four-cylinder cars through the parking lot as the night hummed in future mystery.