La Mort and Merlot

I was early for dinner, as usual. On-time for me meant five minutes early, no exceptions. It wasn’t a habit so much as a state of being.

I understood how most people operated, though, so I never took offense to someone who’s late. In fact, I slightly enjoyed being able to sit down alone for a couple of moments to gather myself for whatever lay ahead.

This evening I had a dinner date, although no butterflies flitted nervously in my belly. It was just another evening.

I had a full inbox in my dating app of choice. I had no problems making small-talk in serendipitous moments. I’d even agreed to be set up a couple of times - including the man I was currently waiting on.

The problem wasn’t in finding someone to go out on a date with. It was finding a connection that was challenging.

The waiter brought my glass of merlot with a smile. It was one of my favorites; rich and dark. Sitting back in my chair, I observed the people milling around on the sidewalk and hurriedly crossing the streets.

When given the opportunity, I’ve always enjoyed sitting outside at a restaurant. When you’re the first to show, it’s more likely to happen, so the odds have always been in my favor.

Sitting in the evening air, surrounded by the city’s hustle and bustle, gives an entirely different ambiance to the date - be it with a friend, new lover, or stranger. Inside, it’s cramped, and the realm of possibility bounces off the enclosed walls, evaporating into the uniform tablecloths, utterly disappearing into the couples and families gathered around them.

Also, it’s easier to talk outside, I feel at least. There’s always the buffer of seeing someone or something on the street that can give rise to a new conversation, new thoughts, and ideas. The surrounding noise creates a personalized bubble, creating a world all our own, adding to the moment’s privacy and intimacy.

The table I was seated at had a perfect view of the street, sidewalk, and the front door of the restaurant.

I found my eyes flicking to it as someone approached, trying not to stare outright in case they turned and caught my eye.

I hadn’t seen my date yet; in fact, since I hadn’t actually met him before, I probably wouldn’t recognize the back of his head anyway. After being introduced by some mutual friends, we engaged in some light texting and talked about meeting up for dinner some time.

Now I was here, sitting at a quaint iron table, the stem of a wine glass between my fingers, people-watching in the cool spring evening.

I glanced down at my watch. My sister had scolded me for wearing it to something like this, mentioning how it implied I didn’t have time for the person sitting across from me. I had rolled my eyes and wore it anyway, simply silencing its notifications for the evening so I could fully settle into the conversation but still aware of the time.

Two minutes to eight.

Sudden honking accompanied by screeching tires and a small commotion around the corner pulled the attention of everyone sitting outside the restaurant and lining the streets as they milled about on their Friday evening.

After a couple of moments, the initial shock wore off, and people went back to eating their meals and hurrying to their destinations.

Sirens sounded faintly in the distance. Usual busy-city noises. Nothing that captured my concerns.

Casting it off, I took a small sip from the glass, not wanting to appear too fond of drinking before we had a chance to get to know each other.

“Is this seat taken?”

The sudden voice startled me, and I sat up quickly, making awkward adjustments with my face so I wouldn’t start choking on the wine in my mouth.

“Uh...” I started anxiously, looking to the door again and then back to the smiling man now standing in front of me. “I’m actually waiting on someone,” I said, offering an apologetic smile and a half shrug.

His charming smile crinkled the corners of his eyes, “Yes, but he told me to come instead.” He gently swept the statement aside like it was the most casual thing he had said all day, motioning to the chair again with his hand, “May I sit?”

I could feel a streak of hot embarrassment rush up to my cheeks, and I wished I could’ve blamed it on the wine.

Seriously, had he seen me and just passed me off to some stranger on the street?

I didn’t have anything else going on and the evening’s plans were a bust. I didn’t have to go home with this person, so at this point, why not? Dining alone was never my favorite pastime.

I nodded, still speechless, attempting to recover gracefully but already feeling like I was failing to do so.

“Thank you!” He continued. “Anyway, I heard this place has really good filet mignon.” He pulled his chair closer to the table, straightening out his shirt when he was settled. He could tell I was still a little unsure of the last-minute switch. “Sorry, where are my manners.” He offered his hand, “I’m Raphael, but please, call me Raph.”

I shook his hand and smiled. “Alicasandra. Sorry, I was just unsure about being set up - again - and then he doesn’t even show.” I could hear the bitterness in my voice, but honestly, what did I have to prove to this stranger sitting across from me. Attempting to make the most of it, I added, “I go by Alice. Have you been here before then?”

He started to shake his head and say no, but the waiter had spotted him and was now heading over to the table.

I smiled warmly, leaning in subconsciously. He wasn’t unattractive, and something was inviting about him.

The waiter quickly introduced himself to Raph and asked what he’d like to drink.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he gestured to my glass.

The waiter nodded an approval and left.

Raphael turned to me, smiling, “No, I haven’t been here actually. I’ve been past it quite a few times, actually, but no. I haven’t come in before.” He sat back in his chair, looking at the honeysuckle that grew in the plant boxes on top of the black iron fencing surrounding the patio area.

I nodded half-heartedly, and brought my glass up to my lips for another sip, turning to gaze at the ringlets of delicate flowers and vines as well. They silently swayed gently in the cooling evening breeze - a stark contrast to the rumbling car motors feet away.

With the first lull in the conversation beginning as soon as he sat down, part of my brain already wrote this second-chance-at-a-date off as a failed attempt as well—an attempt nonetheless. But a failed one at that.

The waiter brought over the additional glass of wine and asked if we were ready to order. We responded that we hadn’t made any decisions yet — neither one of us had scanned the QR code taped to the middle of the tabletop.

He offered to go over the recommendations and specials for the evening, looking from me to Raph and back again for an answer; he hid his dwindling patience well behind a smile that refused to crack.

Raph smiled, “Yes, please, I was thinking of a couple of appetizers. Something to go well with the wine and conversation.”

The waiter smiled obligingly and started listing the chef’s daily specials — something I only half-listened to but offered an encouraging smile. None of it would genuinely pair well with the merlot until he mentioned some personal favorites at the end. The smoky cheese board would be an excellent companion to the evening.

Raph listened attentively. If he was uninterested, I couldn’t tell. When the waiter finished, he was still smiling as he said, “Let us think about it for just a couple of minutes. I’ll get your attention when we’re ready, but keep the wine coming.” He gave a playful smile and wink before turning back to me, dismissing him in the same motion.

It almost surprised me. I could feel the corner of my eyebrow shift upwards involuntarily. It wasn’t rude, but it was distinct, a clear end to their conversation.

Once the waiter was a safe distance away, Raph took a sip and asked, “Did any of those actually sound good to you?”

“I thought the ‘smoky cheese board’ sounded interesting,” I suggested lightly.

He nodded, pulling out his phone to scan the code to pull up the full menu.

I did the same and started scrolling through the shortlist on the screen, wondering why they couldn’t have printed this out. It seemed so impersonal, glued to the phone across the table from a stranger, an entire universe waiting to unfold between us.

“Would you consider yourself a risk-taker?” He didn’t look up from his phone as he asked.

I placed my phone on the table, content to use one finger to aimlessly scroll up and down as if more options would materialize if it sensed my disappointment in the lack of choices. With the other hand, my fingers absent-mindedly traced the foot of the wine glass in front of me.

“What a wonderful way to start a conversation with a stranger,” I learned long ago to allow my sarcasm to exude from me, no-holds-barred. Scanning the descriptions, I added, “I guess I would say I’m a calculated risk-taker?”

He laughed, “Is there such a thing?” He took a deep swallow of wine and looked at the thick, blood-colored liquid, and voiced his approval, “This is very good.”

I smiled, sitting up a little bit, “I think so. You asking for the wine I ordered is a calculated risk. How could you know that I’m drinking something you’d enjoy? But I also suppose if I’m drinking it, how bad it could it possibly be? There’s still a chance that you would think it’s liquified garbage, though.”

“Well, maybe I knew what kind it was,” he said playfully, setting the glass down. “I would say I’m one as well. Although there’s a line where it stops qualifying as a risk, I feel.”

I decided on suggesting the mushroom and goat cheese meatballs and pressed the button to lock my phone, shifting it to the side of the table. “Where would that line be?” I challenged him, smiling, putting my chin in my hands in mock anticipation.

Maybe this wouldn’t be a total loss.

His head tilted side to side as he started talking as if he was carefully choosing his words as he went, “In my line of work, I know all of the possible outcomes of my clients and how to execute them in the precise manner necessary. But because I know so much, I just wonder if it’s still considered a risk.” His fingertips danced across the table as he spoke, granting minute life to his sentences and punctuating it with an upturned palm in a gesture of inquiry.

He continued, “If you decided to go skydiving tomorrow and were looking at different companies that you could pay to take you up and jump with you, would you pick the one that has three recorded accidents, or would you choose the one with none? Furthermore, if you can select the person you’re jumping with, and they’ve been skydiving for 20 years with no recorded incidents — is that really a risk? To me, it sounds just as dangerous as getting in your recently inspected car and driving down the road, hell, maybe even speeding a little, to a destination you’ve been before, and at an hour of low traffic.

“I’m not saying that you should pick the place where 25 people have fallen to their death after jumping out of a plane, but it’s just the illusion of risk. The thrill of falling and the lingering thought in your mind that maybe, just maybe, the parachute won’t open at the end.” He paused, his amber-brown eyes looking around but only seeing his own shifting sea of thoughts.

The waiter walking towards our table with the bottle of wine caught his attention, and he smiled, straightening up and returning to the moment.

He asked if we had decided on anything yet when he arrived, filling our glasses and setting the bottle down on the table.

“I think we’ve decided on the smoky cheese tray you mentioned,” Raph started before gesturing to me, “was there anything else that caught your eye?”

“Yes, could we also get the mushroom and goat cheese meatballs, please?”

He praised us on our choices and left us with a false smile and a hint of expensive cologne.

“See, that was a risk,” He laughed, grabbing his glass where the bowl met the stem and using it to gesture at me.

I laughed gently, sitting back in my chair, surprisingly relaxed with this strange, handsome man sitting across from me. “How so?”

“Well, maybe I don’t like goat cheese. Or mushrooms. Or spherical-shaped meat.” His face was very serious, but his tone was teasing.

“So maybe you’re a picky eater?” I teased back, “And maybe I’d end up eating all of something that sounds pretty damn delicious.”

“Ah, a calculated risk indeed,” His lips brushed the rim as he spoke.

"I think all risks are calculated. The difference lies in what is deemed worthy of the unsavory consequences. And if the reward outweighs what could be gained.” I thought for a moment, “I’m not sure if I would consider impulsivity the same as risk-taking. There’s little thought involved, so little that the fact it’s a risk may not even be realized.”

He seemed to ponder this, the fingers on his free hand absentmindedly running along the curve of his lower lip. “Yes, I suppose the impulsive ones are the most to suffer.” He was lost in thought for a moment before blinking back to me and meeting my gaze. Leaning forward, he asked, “So what line of work are you in?”

I returned my glass to the table. I thought I’d have more time to sip, but I wanted to be prepared to spit fire back in case he decided to have a snide remark to my occupation of choice. “I’m a photographer,” I said, holding his eye contact challengingly.

He smiled, and his eyebrow went up quizzically, “Can photographs lie?” His tone was rich with something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

My brain raced ahead, trying to figure out what he was getting at. I was used to people sneering and asking how many baby pictures and cat pictures I took in a year. I was used to questions involving how I could make a living that way and if it were everything I thought it would be. My favorite was when I was asked, ‘isn’t everyone a photographer?’

I took my time to answer the question, twirling the wine around in my glass introspectively. “People can lie in a photograph, but the picture itself does not lie.”

“Explain,” He gestured for me to continue, his back meeting the chair as he prepared to listen.

“I think the most common example is having everyone smile in the picture. Not every picture is a happy moment. The best photographs, in my opinion, are the candid ones where the subject doesn’t even know that they are having their picture taken.”

He nodded and added thoughtfully, “I suppose people aren’t always aware of who they are and how others perceive them, as well?”

“Definitely. The camera captures it all — insecurities, happiness, doubt, fear, sadness, euphoria. Often, a subject may not even truly see themselves until I’m showing them what I’ve captured, and I can see the surprise bloom across their face.” I paused, “It can actually be quite magical, for lack of a better word.” I laughed nervously and took a quick sip of wine in an attempt to hide the blush creeping into my cheeks.

I wasn’t used to speaking so candidly with someone. It was a nice change of pace from some of the other first dates I recently had.

The waiter was returning with our cheese board. He placed it in between us and told us the name of each cheese, although our eyes never left each other while he spoke.

We thanked him, and he left us again.

Raph picked the conversation back up, “In my line of work, I find that people can have a disconnect between how they think other people see them and who they actually are. If that makes sense?”

“It does. What line of work are you in?”

He hesitated, “I’m in the business of Death.” He deliberately pressed the glass to his mouth and took a deep drink of the wine, licking the excess from his lips. “I think sometimes people would be surprised by how they are actually remembered versus how they think they will be.”

“Are you like a mortician?” I couldn’t help but laugh, immediately feeling guilty considering how understanding and kind he had been about my career. I reached out and put a piece of cheese on a cracker, popping it into my mouth to keep it from doing anything else foolish.

“Not exactly,” he said rather quietly; his eyes were intense as they gazed into mine.

A chill went down my spine despite the late spring evening. I could feel my body tensing; the wine was lulling some of my senses but not all of them. My vision seemed to widen so I could notice the exits. We were in a crowded place; how much danger could I truly be in?

“Explain?” I could hear the shift in my tone and knew he could too.

He nodded as if enthused to be given a chance to answer and seemed to be choosing his words carefully, mulling over the best way to explain it.

The waiter came over with the platter of meatballs and two appetizer plates. He seemed to sense that we were in a tense part of the conversation, so he quietly left them on the table. His eyes fell on the nearly empty bottle, and he asked if we would like another.

Raph’s smile was reassuring. He nodded, smiling and crinkling up his eyes and eyebrows, “Yes, please, I think one more would do nicely.”

The waiter smiled and left.

“I’m not a hitman either if that’s what you’re thinking,” He chuckled, like the thought of being one was complete lunacy. “I simply help guide people to the other side when it is their time.”

I thought this was a bad joke. He had to be a mortician or a hitman, a hitman with a way of considering himself a natural death rather than someone paid to end a life before it’s time.

He picked up the nearly empty bottle and motioned to top off my glass with the last of the deep blood-colored merlot. It was more than just that; it was a gesture if we were in understanding. If this date would continue. If I would engage.

“Am I going to die at the end of this date?” I asked. The only reason my body wasn’t more tense was because of the amount of wine we had already shared.

He took the opportunity to top off my glass, setting the empty bottle down on the table just in time for the waiter to pick it up and leave us with a fresh, uncorked one.

He chuckled and shook his head, “No, no. When I had to take-“ he paused, thinking, “-Jeff, I saw that he was going to be accidentally standing up an intelligent, exquisite woman and thought that maybe I would take his place and enjoy some pleasant conversation.” He took another drink of the wine, grabbing the fresh bottle from where the waiter had left it and filling up his own glass. “Merlot is also hard to pass up.” He added with a charming smile.

I wondered how much I could rely on the word of Death that I would not be dying soon after leaving the table. If this man were joking and playing a terrifying game with me, I’d probably die anyway. If he was Death, what would be the point in lying about it. I suppose the same for a hitman — although I wouldn’t think an assassin would be so forthcoming with his occupation.

Either way, if this were my last meal and my life would end at the hands of a natural cause (aka Death) or at the hands of this psycho who had killed my real date, I might as well enjoy it.

Wine would at least soften any blows.

“If you truly are Death,” I started quietly, tilting my head to the side and leaning in closer, “What’s something everyone thinks about at the end?”

He sat back, in thought, “I feel like regrets is the answer that’s too obvious. Most people think about the risks they wish they would’ve taken. They regret playing it safe at the end.” He was studying my face now.

I grabbed my now full glass, bringing it close to my chest. I stacked some more of the smoky cheese on a cracker and moved it to the tiny plate in front of me. Using one of the small forks, I stabbed one of the delicate, hand-rolled meatballs and placed it next to the cracker, slicing it in half to reveal its soft, gooey insides.

“That goes along with the whole how people are versus what they think they are, though.” He continued, using his fingers to move a meatball to his plate and then some crackers and cheese, creating a smaller spread for himself. “I think people evenly fall between being too hard on themselves and never reaching the goals they wanted to so they aren’t remembered for them. Either way, they feel they didn’t take enough risks to get to where they wanted to be.

“They weren’t a good parent, friend, brother, sister, whatever it is, because they were too wrapped up in a career or something else they have since deemed to be a waste of time. Or they wanted to be remembered for something more personal, like being a spectacular painter, but they never showed anyone their artwork, or worse yet, were too afraid to put the brush to the canvas. They never conquered their stage fright to sing live or share their poetry at an open mic night. Things like that.”

I watched his delicate gestures while he spoke and took another drink, running everything over in my mind. “I suppose the risk of rejection is too great for some. And for others, it’s easiest to take the ones we are closest to for granted.” I drank half of my glass of wine, deciding that this would be the risk I would take today, perhaps the first impulsive one in my life. Reflecting on that, I added, “Maybe the impulsive ones acquire more physical and emotional pain through their lives, but maybe they are the happiest when it’s their time to go.”

I surveyed the table. We had finished nearly a third of the second bottle. Raph had stuffed the meatball into his mouth while I was talking and had moved another to his plate. This one he cut up and placed on the cheese atop a cracker.

Half the cheese tray was gone. The meatballs had lost their steam. If it had been anyone else, the date would’ve been a success. We were so wrapped up in our conversation that we forgot to eat and had simply enjoyed each other’s company and the companionship of a good bottle of wine — well, two.

“This was a really lovely conversation. Thank you, I needed this.” His smile was unadulterated, wholly pure, and lacking any alternative motives.

“Why are you here?” I smiled warmly at him, my head slightly shaking side to side in disbelief, genuinely confused but no longer feeling like he was a threat — despite the voice in the back of my head saying maybe, just maybe, he was going to run a blade over my neck later that night as I walked to my apartment only a couple of blocks away.

He smiled his million-dollar smile, not a tooth out of line, the slightest of wrinkles around his eyes, his chuckle like honey, “Even Death does not like to dine alone.” Without skipping a beat, he continued, ”Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Alice, but I really must be going now. Enjoy the cheese and wine.”

He laughed, standing up and pushing in his chair. He came and picked up my hand from the table, giving it a gentle kiss before turning and walking to our waiter. I watched him slip him some cash, to which the waiter eagerly shook his hand, smiling.

Raph looked back at me one last time, giving a wave. He excused himself out the side gate and disappeared into the people walking along the street.

It was a good date, all things considered.

I sat for a while, alone. I was drinking the wine, watching people move about their lives on the street, blissfully unaware that Death walked among them as one of their own.

The honeysuckle swayed gently in the breeze.