A Flute Of Merlot

His name was Willow Smithers, a strong Scotsman.

He stood over the grave of his late wife, Molly, shoveling in dirt atop her casket. He did this with a heart heavy with sorrow, each shovelful signifying a farewell. He wasn't rich, but he scraped together enough money to give her a proper send off.

Now, as he leaned on the shovel, as the dusk rose, he recalled their time together.

He was a railway worker when he met her at one of the station buildings while he was on duty. She was conventional, no beauty, per se, but pretty enough. After all, that was the last year of the Second World War.

"Come lately here?" he asked her.

"On my way to Glasgow," she replied.

There was certain chemistry between them, that was for sure.

"Would have time for a cuppa?"

"I'll miss my train."

"There will be one along shortly after."

In the little cafe opposite the station, he introduced her to Merlot, his favorite wine. As they drank, they shared stories.

It took Willow three months to gather his courage to ask her for a date, but he decided to pull out all the stops: not only had he booked a dinner at a restaurant but also a wine tasting tour. He had prepared an engagement ring to drop into the flute of Merlot, hoping she will be keen to accept his engagement before she scoffed the wine in one gulp.

So, with all preparations sorted, he took Molly on a wine-tasting tour before heading to dinner. He had already arranged with the waiter to bring him a flute of Merlot with a ring at the bottom, ensuring that her glass would be dark-colored so the surprise wouldn't be ruined.

As he expected, as she took a gulp of the Merlot, her gaze held on something shiny at the bottom of her flute.

"What is this?" She placed her flute down on the table, and with two fingers fished the ring out from the glass. "A ring?"

"Yes, Molly. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

She agreed.

The wedding, the storms of the fading war permitting, was a simple affair, and the caterers fulfilled Willow's request to serve only Merlot to all the guests.

Alone now, in his cottage, he reflected on his six decades of marriage, quiet and unassuming. He long retired from the railways, to look after his wife.

He sipped at his flute of Merlot.

It was evening, around seven, when he received a guest. It was his neighbor, Delphi, who knew Molly intimately.

"My condolences for your loss," she said, and hugged him tenderly.

"Thank you."

"How shall you bear it?"

"What I must, I may," he told her, meaning he would have to shoulder the pain and suffering of his loss, until such time that he was ready to, as they used to say in Europe at the time, join his wife "on the other side."

They shared a flute of Merlot together, to honor his wife, and reminisced over her life, as the fire crackled in the hearth, and night settled over his cottage on the coast.

It took Delphi two weeks to realize something wasn't right. She hadn't seen Willow outside pottering in his garden, as was his custom. It concerned her, and promised to visit his little cottage.

She knocked gently on the door.

"Mr. Smithers? Are you okay?"

She touched the door knob. The door opened, only slightly.

Willow was lying on the round rug in the middle of the lounge room. She touched his head: it was cold.

An empty flute, with a remaining drop of Merlot, lay next to him. She guessed at Willow suffering a sudden heart attack as the only reasonable explanation.

She picked up the flute and took it and the bottle, with about two fingers worth of Merlot at the bottom, to the kitchen.

Perhaps he couldn't stand living the rest of his life in loneliness. Two weeks ago he lay his wife to rest, and now he was about to join her, just as he had predicted.