"You know I do! Picked you up a bottle on my way over too, but it's so hot out, look; it's sweating like a hard cheese on the A train," Much (grooving to the music as he went, because anything Marcie thought was fire he was going to groove to) pulled the bottle from where it was precariously wedged under an arm, the glass, which had been cold when he'd got it out of the chiller a couple of blocks away, was beading with moisture. He slid it sideways into the fridge where it could live till its time came, and wiped the condensation off on his shorts. "Me, I got a saga to tell you, it involves beards, inspiration, the treachery of Will Scarlett. Shall I, while you?" he asked, pointing first at the take out, then at the wine.