A Marriage in the Dolomites

We communicated by cheeses, unwrapping them gingerly, parting the crust with a fork, tasting dew, must, salt, raising an eyebrow, or we let chianti talk for us, rolling it in the glass, staring—it was dark and shiny as the pupil, and stared back— or we undressed each other; we took long walks hand in hand in the vineyards, the pastures, resenting each other bitterly for our happiness that excluded us as surely as the world did, mountain after mountain.