Ernest smiled fondly at her as she took the bottle from him, remembering wandering the streets of Boston with a bottle of whiskey. He had to stop this reminiscing. This was a new start, a reset, no matter how much he wished it could be different.
He kicked off his own shoes, removed socks and rolled up the bottom of his pants to just above the ankle. If he was going to do Cuban beach, he was going to do it properly. He took the bottle back from her with a grateful smile, and downed a mouthful of his own.
Her question was unexpected, but rather than be overly surprised (he knew why she had brought it up, after all) he did consider his options, taking another swig and passing the bottle back to her. He knew the answer. The Island, the day after Millie was born. But he supposed that answer wasn't going to make much sense. He also realised he'd said he had four sons - he hadn't counted Millie.
"Paris in the 20s. Boston in the next century. Michigan last century. South Africa whenever, and China never again," he told her, as if he were just sticking pins in a map at random. "I'm not sure where other than Earth because I don't know much about space, I guess. Hell, drop me anywhere. There's bound to be a story in it, or a decent view at least, wherever I'd end up," he told her. "What about you?"