Yerba

We’re sitting on the grass of the riverbank, the three of us, drinking sweet white wine thicker than the heavy sunshine. There’s something in the vibrating air that has made us understand that we won’t be sitting like this again: time to maybe find a home. “I’m going to be in South America by the end of summer,” he says suddenly. “We’ll be going on a trip just after the wedding.” The wedding is in two weeks; I’ve got nothing to say. From next to me, she only says, “If you’re going to Brazil, don’t forget to drink Yerba Mate.”