A Fine Wine is Hard to Find

I swirl the half-empty glass of Merlot cradled in my hand while my date, Mikey Jones, continues to drone on even though he’s long since lost my attention to the barely preferable ambiance of the Italian restaurant, with its flaking red vinyl booths and white-draped round tables, the tacky ivy and faux grapes encircling tan shutter windows that stand out against the mottled black-red carpeting and walls. I wonder what I’m doing here as I look back at Meathead Mike, his glass still heavy in his hand.

He’s a lot like the Merlot. Sucks the air from your words, puckers your face up at the overwhelming flavor of a burn. Not the easiest to swallow and near impossible to enjoy. I lean forward with my left arm and rest my head against it. Why am I drinking this, stoking the ego of an overbearing man underneath some of the smallest chandeliers I’ve ever seen?

“—don’t get me wrong. I love kids. My friend is due—”

Oh. I take a sip from my glass and set it down, a bitter smile spreading across my face now that I know that Meathead and I are facing the same dilemma.

My friends are beautiful lovely people, but these days, they always remind me of how single I am. It’s not something they try to do, but when I’m the only person showing up without a plus-one at a gathering, how the hell am I supposed to not notice something like that?

Mike picks up the wine bottle and holds a hand out for my glass with an eager smile, drawing my eyes to his stubbly sharp jawline. Well, He’s at least handsome. I push my cup to Mike.

Behind him, at the back of the restaurant where a party of at least fifteen chatter and cackle, the kitchen doors swing open, and our waitress, Xitlali, emerges with a tray full of food.

She’s working her way around the large table, dispersing drinks and extra plates to the jubilant family. A dark strand hangs free from her bun and curls into her cheek. She meets my gaze as she finally approaches our table. She smiles at me and sets our plates down before us.

“Is there anything else I can get for you two?” she asks, glancing between us.

“Some A-1 would be great,” Mike says.

“And you ma’am?” she asks, cheeks rosy as she looks at me with those pretty hazel eyes.

My heart drums in my ears. “Do y’all got lemonade here?”

She tries not to laugh. “We do.”

“Strawberry lemonade?”

“Unfortunately, this place isn’t that classy.”

“Ah, you had me fooled with the chandeliers and spotless table covers.”

“You’d be surprised at how many people settle for the bare minimum.”

“Right. So, about that A-1,” Mike blurts in a clipped tone.

We both look at Meathead Mike, his presence suddenly remembered.

“I’ll be right back with that,” Xitlali assures him and leaves.

Mike clears his throat. He flashes me an uneasy grin and gestures for me to eat, so I do, chewing over what Xitlali said.

Am I settling for the bare minimum? I study Mike now, who could probably talk for a whole day if he wanted to— must be why he has such a chiseled jawline. A pleasant conversation online and an act of boldness. That’s all it took for him to get me on this date. Sure, he’s not perfect, but he isn’t awful, and awful is the bare minimum for me at this point.

Xitlali emerges from the kitchen with the A-1 and my drink. She plunks the glass down in front of me, and there, floating above the ice, are a few slices of strawberry.

“I made a special request to the kitchen,” she says with a wink.

I grasp the cold glass, condensation dampening my hands. I smile, press my lips together, file through different ways to say thank you, and look up at her.

“Yeah, thanks,” Mike cuts in and waves a hand at Xitlali, “we’ll flag you down if we need anything else.”

She drops her head to the ground. Her hands shake as she grips her apron, and for a moment, the white long-sleeve button-up seems to sag around her. Then, she turns to a different table, her friendly smile back in an instant and shirt filled with confidence once again.

“I know you just ordered that lemonade, but we still need to finish the Merlot,” Mike says, completely concentrated on flooding his plate of steak and potatoes with A-1.

“I’m not trying to get wine drunk. I drove.”

“We can finish it at my place later, it’s not far from here,” he says before shoving a forkful of meat in his mouth. In between bites, he goads about the nuances of the Snyder Cut. I wonder if I should leave. My thighs are sweating imprints into the vinyl, and I’m not sure I even want to go to his place. Where would a no leave me though?

My friends are lucky. Love knocked on their front door, sent a message with flowers and a shower of compliments. I can’t seem to find it no matter how pretty I look when I go out or how many hours I spend digging through online matches.

Settling, huh? Did Xitlali ever stop to think that people settle because nothing better exists? I’d gladly take a long-winded explanation of some movie over a desperate sleaze pawing at me under the table or a dry soul with the humor of a dead goldfish. This guy was cute and at least wanted me, so we could work on his need to dominate a conversation later. I just can’t be alone anymore.

Xitlali comes and gathers our empty plates on her tray. She looks at me and smiles. “Can I get you anything else?”

I jump in my seat when a cold hand takes mine. Mike stares at Xitlali with hardened eyes. “The check, please.”

Xitlali flusters for a moment before nodding. “I’ll bring that right over.” She leaves.

I retract my hand from Mike’s and grab my lemonade to take a sip. He looks at me surprised then laughs awkwardly.

“I’m sorry about that. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m a bit of a territorial male when it comes to the things I like—”

I choke on the lemonade and slam it back down on the table, pressing my napkin to my face to stifle the coughs.

“Uhh, are you alright?” Meathead Mike asks, reaching out to touch me. I shoot up in my seat.

“Yeah—” I clear my throat, “Bathroom. Sorry. Be back.” I toss the napkin onto the table and hurry into the bathroom.

This is stupid. I bite my lip. The sink wavers in my view as if filling with water. I swipe the tears from my eyes.

I’m such an idiot. Sephora brand lip gloss. Kate Spade purse. Maybe it’ll always end like this no matter what I changed.

Outside the bathroom, feet scuffle, then in stumbles Xitlali, shoved by a pair of indiscernible hands. More strands dangle free and frame her face, bun disheveled like the rest of her.

She looks at me, face red. “Hey,” she says with wide eyes.

I jerk my gaze to the sink and clear my throat. “Hey,” I reply in a thick voice.

She shuffles to a sink two spaces away from mine and slowly washes her hands. From her wrist to her elbow, a line of what I assume is marinara sauce stains her crisp white shirt. She dabs at it with paper towels.

“That’s new,” I say and gesture to the sauce.

Xitlali sighs. “What can I say? Kids like to throw spaghetti at the wall.”

I dry my hands and glance at her again, my eyes following the moles on her red face like stars in the sky. “Can’t you ask your boss to turn on the AC?”

She looks at me. “What?”

“Your face is all red. You look like you could die of heatstroke.”

“Oh!” She laughs awkwardly and plays with the string of her apron. “No, I’m fine, don’t worry.”

Pop music fills the bathroom. Xitlali’s frame tickles my periphery. I want to say more to her, but Meathead is out there, waiting.

“You’ve been standing there a while,” Xitlali says, still twirling the string in her hands, “Something on your mind?”

It’s a kind gesture, nothing probing, just offering an ear to talk to, but it’s needed now since the only thing I’m sure about is that I want to keep talking to her. If I’m going to take this from her, I have to boil it down to something she could answer in the middle of a bathroom break.

“I hate the Merlot.”

She blinks at me then snorts back a laugh. “Sorry. That’s not what I was expecting.”

Her chuckles die down at my serious expression. “Okay,” she says, “don’t drink it and try something else.”

“….That’s it?”

“That’s it,” she says and raises her hands to exaggerate a shrug, “just like that.”

“But it cost money. It’s already been ordered.”

“Which means you can do whatever you want with it, so give it to someone else or toss it. Unless you like drinking bad drinks.”

Xitlali sighs when my frown deepens and walks towards me, Old Spice cologne wafting off her.

“Well, fine,” she says, annunciating with bubblegum pink lips, “if you feel so damn bad for the wine, say it like this.” She clears her throat. “Merlot, I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work,” she says and waves those composer hands of hers, “I tried, but you’re just not my flavor, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home to cuddle my cats.”

She looks at me expectantly, Phil Collins’ voice floating down from the bathroom speakers as he sings about hurrying love. My heart’s at it again— beating in my wrists, my head, but this isn’t nerves. No, instead of the familiar cliche of a cold sweat, I’m warm everywhere.

I nod and sigh a long sigh. “Well, I don’t have any cats, but I think I can work with that.”

Xitlali smiles, her face red again. “If you want,” she suggests in a hesitant voice, “I have a wine collection at my place. I’m sure I’ll find something you like.” She looks at me, hands shaking in her apron, gaze fierce with determination.

Heat warms my cheeks, and I smile. “Alright. You have a pen?”

Xitlali grins real wide. She reaches into her apron and hands me a pen and notepad.

I scribble my information down, and when I hand it to her, I ask, “So, your face isn’t red from heat then?”

Xitlali’s blush spreads to her neck, and she pockets her things. “Honestly, I’ve been debating this whole time on whether I’d talk to you or not. I finally decided no, but then a friend saw you come in here and sort of,” she pauses and pushes her hands out in front of her, “gave me a gentle nudge.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I saw that… And I’m glad your friend did.”

Xitlali smiles, “Me too.” She heads for the exit. “Okay… So… I’ll text you,” she says and pulls the door open, only to find a closed sign propped across it. She takes it down and looks at me, smiling nervously. “Uhm. Chloe did that,” she stammers before leaving.

I laugh and grab the sides of the sink. Maybe this was love, finally knocking at my door.

My phone chimes in my bag. I yank it around and open it, searching through gum, cards, and lip glosses to fish it out.

A text from Mikey reads, “Is everything okay in there??”

Oh. Right. Gotta' dump the meathead.