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They're on a rooftop patio somewhere. Carol's not even sure where anymore. Lost that knowledge somewhere in the swirl of flying and flimsy borrowed happiness and the burn of alcohol to stifle the guilt.
She looks across the table at Zosia's eternal smile. She could ask, she thinks, and get a litany of facts. Get all the knowledge of everybody who lived here, before, everybody who worked in these buildings or ate at this restaurant or fucking came here on vacation.
She swallows wine, dry and sour. Doesn't ask. Sometimes asking reminds her too much of everything Zosia is. (Didn't they use to call it romantic, for someone you cared about to be an everything? The literal concept, she thinks bitterly, is enough to destroy that illusion.)
Focus, Carol. (Or unfocus, really. Float just enough above reality to keep this bubble intact.)
Zosia reaches across fluidly, that no-mistakes grace Carol pretends is all hers. “More wine, Carol?”
Carol pulls the glass away from her lips. Realises it's empty. Holds it out.
Zosia pours steady-handed, even as the flute shakes in Carol's fingers. Pours till the dark liquid nearly hits the top, till Carol almost thinks she'll spill it, almost wishes she would, like maybe that'd prove the world's best bartenders aren't sat here with her too.
Zosia stops at the perfect mark. The wine doesn't spill. Carol lifts it to her lips. Tries not to think of cupboard sensors, Helen, it's not good for you– Tries not to think of enablement. They would get me a bomb if I asked. She would get me a bomb if I asked.
She drains the glass. Zosia refills it. Rinse, repeat.
“So, uh...” Fingers twisting round the glass stem. She looks out at the lavish restaurant, the soft lights, the centrepieces, the twinkling canopy of stars. It looks romantic, idyllic. In some other universe, this isn't a twisted mockery of a dinner date. “What's good here?”
Zosia smiles. (Continues to smile. Widens her smile. Something.) “Everything.”
“Everything?” Carol snorts. “Sure, this place is fancy, but there must be something they got wrong, right? Before. When they weren't all, you know, every Michelin-starred guy at once.”
Zosia shrugs. “Every dish here was liked by at least one person who is now part of us. And so we love them all.”
“Just like you love Wycaro the same as Romeo and Juliet,” Carol says. “Right.”
Zosia nods. “If you would like, I can tell you which dishes had the highest overall rating.”
Carol shakes her head. “No. Thank you. I– uh. I'm okay not knowing that. Just... I'll have–”
Another smile. “We know.” Soft, amended– “I know.”
Carol lifts the wineglass again. She gets her head clouded enough and maybe I will sound like something real again. I know like some devoted partner who's bothered to learn her preferences, rather than an amalgamation of the memories of everyone she's ever had dinner with. (Of Helen, mostly Helen. Zosia knows because Helen knew. Because that devoted partner was real, once.)
Swallow. Set the glass down. Let Zosia pour. Rinse. Repeat. Forget.
A server, smart-uniformed, wide-smiling, setting a plate before her. “For you, Carol.”
A chain of them, all smiling, all setting plates and bowls and condiments, a co-ordinated murmur. “For you, Carol.”
Carol mumbles thanks each time, like they haven't all already got the message. Lifts the lid on a dozen dishes she and Helen ate together.
Swallow. Repeat. Forget.
“What do you think, Carol?” Zosia asks.
Carol wonders how many times she'll hear her name before it turns to nonsense. They use it pervasively, compulsively. It's like a clumsy section of dialogue, something from a first draft she'd scrub later, rolling her eyes. She said Raban's name fifty times in that chapter. Jesus Christ.
And Zosia, straight off the book cover. The drink's not blurring this enough.
“It's good,” she says through a mouthful. Can't taste much, really, except the wine's dry acidity and the sickness crawling up her throat.
It hasn't been like this, the whole time. She's forgotten. She's been happy, even, almost, near as dammit. (The guilt swamps her for that too.)
“Fun fact,” Zosia says, bright like a charming quirk, like the sort of thing Carol might kiss off her lips if it was real. (It could be real, couldn't it, could be a remnant of who Zosia was? For tonight, Carol decides it is.) “The wine you're drinking comes from the Côte de Nuits in France. The region has a history of viticulture dating all the way back to the third century, when the Romans introduced it to the area during their settlement of Gaul. From a certain perspective, your wine comes from a lineage over 1,700 years old.”
Carol eyes the glass. “Huh.”
Zosia is unbothered by her lacklustre response. Carol wishes she'd be bothered. Demand engagement. Wants to fight two-sided, end the fight with a kiss that doesn't drown her in guilt.
Zosia shares more facts. Carol swallows more wine, offsets it with food, half-listens, half-watches.
Blurry, resurfacing as her inhibitions sink: she really doesn't need to be so goddamn fuckable.
Zosia lays a hand on her wrist when they're through with dessert. “What now, Carol?”
“What now,” Carol echoes flatly back at her.
“We could visit the gardens,” Zosia says. “Watch a movie. Go to the next place.” She smiles. “The world is truly your oyster.”
Our, Carol thinks. It should be our. Like you're not only doing this for me.
“Normally,” she says, attempts steadiness. She's drunker than she thought. “You wine and dine a girl... you don't go where next. Restaurant's normally the end if it goes badly. Goes well and...” She gesticulates. “You know.”
Zosia nods, still smiling steady. “Of course, Carol. We can find a hotel. But if we were to suggest, it might be preferable to reduce your current intoxication levels before partaking in sexual activity.”
Carol chokes. Waves away Zosia's concerned hands. “Can you not say it like that?”
Zosia inclines her head. “What would you prefer us – me – to call it?”
“If you were to suggest,” Carol says, ignoring the question and the horrors it presents. “Which is just a recommendation, right? You're not telling me what to do. I get what I want no matter how bad it is for me. That's the way this whole deal goes.”
And once again, Zosia nods. “Of course. We want to make you happy, Carol.” A hand on her hands, leaning across the table, all soft concerned eyes. “I want to make you happy.”
Carol considers sobbing. Considers hurling the wine glass off the rooftop. Considers hurling herself after it.
Asks, instead, “Where's this hotel?”
She'll drown later if she has to. Tonight, she'll forget.