Tinderly Vulnerable Merlot

Tinderly Vulnerable Merlot

By: Christa Cusack O’Neill

Tinder, a man without a face.

But his chiseled back I see, is that a disgrace?

Who is he? Do I make myself vulnerable, what the heck?

What do I have to lose, my neck?

Well, “hello there,” he said to me.

I am nervous. It is my first chat, all the others had no teeth.

We converse.

I am scared, and then I curse.

I think, why do I lack vulnerability?

Then, I realize I need this sizzle.

This mental profitability.

So, off I seek to meet Mr. Chisel.

Dressed to kill, we land midway up the stairs,

I stop and pause with despair.

The bright upstairs seems so concerning,

I thought I was learning.

It was so questionable.

But instead, I decide I want joy like a festival.

So up the stairs, to the top of the stairs I go.

He has an AIRBNB property for show.

In the kitchen, two glasses and a bottle of merlot,

I observe him, the glass, the pour; so slow.

I watch it flow.

From the bottom, one inch up, not quite two. He did know.

I smile in awe.

From what I saw.

He is masculine with big hands and not to mention the flash back.

Yes, he is stacked.

We enjoy a glass of merlot.

Talk about life, boy he sure did know.

He lights candles, one, two, three.

Potatoes, fiddleheads, and roast beef.

The finely cooked food we devour,

Not one word or bite seems sour.

My insides are in a shamble.

But I must force my vulnerability,

So, I ramble.

He keeps staring at me,

Weird, I know.

From the tip of my tongue to the bottom of my toe,

I was being checked out.

Without a doubt.

But, I mean, his words, his charm,

his wisdom, and he didn’t mean any harm.

I enjoy myself immensely.

He did not speak offensively.

We clang cheers, finish our glass of merlot.

We dress and leave for a show.

We walk up the stairs to the gallery,

An art show with Dr. Poirley.

A doctor who side-hustles art,

His message; and with a good heart.

Wonderful feelings evade me in talks of other beings.

Talks of what I do, and my writings.

Talks of what he does, which is; sometimes writes.

Also, our hopes and dreams,

And all things related to our future, you see.

We observe the hand-painted greeting cards.

I look to him and wonder if I am his next discard.

Vulnerability.

I say, ‘Be Me’ to me.

I smile, look up at him.

He smiles back, and I melt in sin.

Like butter on my hot potatoes, we had for dinner.

Oh, my inner thoughts, I am new at Tinder, just a beginner.

The gallery server brings out drinks, and you guessed it,

More Merlot, and we sit.

We speak about travel.

Things begin to unravel.

I open up and share my lack of self from a recent separate.

He relates and supports me and my new mandate.

My journey to write about my life and my frustrate.

Eager is he, and eager is I.

The two of us depart but not before wondering why.

A requested kiss gets denied.

I thought about it, and I tried.

I am not that vulnerable, you see,

Because it is our first date, and I have red lipstick on me.

He tells me I can smear him anytime with that red lipstick.

I leave for my vehicle in shock and wonder if he is a dick?

I shake my head because I wanted that kiss.

It just didn’t feel right; something was amiss.

Another date did happen and that kiss, a fruition.

No, I didn’t listen to my intuition.

Or my inner voice recognition.

But all the sizzle and chisel happened and bravery.

And for me, that is a wonderful memory.

These things happen; I guess.

Fruit-bodied Merlot,

Chisel-bodied beau,

Tinder,

And something to remember.

Vulnerability!

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