[ without a care about how it comes across, he balances his unfinished apple on a shelf's edge and eases a pocket-knife out of his jacket. biting down on his tongue as he concentrates, sharpe digs the firmly lodged cork out with the blade. a twist; a stab; a satisfying pop. ]
No harm in trying, eh? [ he wafts the speared cork under his nose -- smelling the wine. he tilts his head back, thinks for a moment, then leans in once more for another sniff. like little dark berries. ]
no subject
No harm in trying, eh? [ he wafts the speared cork under his nose -- smelling the wine. he tilts his head back, thinks for a moment, then leans in once more for another sniff. like little dark berries. ]
It'll do. For a French wine.