Liquid Courage

I swirled my glass of merlot. I could feel the weight of the bowl as it rested in my hands. I know you are supposed to hold it by the stem. Something about not wanting to change the temperature of the wine, but I prefer the stability. I watch as the diaphanous waves of red fall into themselves. It is as if I am looking through an oculus into some otherworldly sea.

The rich burgundy reminds me of the summers of my childhood, biting into lush cherries that reddened my fingertips. I hypnotize myself with the dark ripples of my drink, before I am jolted back to the present by a grating voice.

"Are you listening to me," I hear.

I snap my head up, and to my disappointment, I am faced again with my date. He eyes me with an irritated look on his face. Clearly my distraction wasn't winning me any points, but I wasn't sure if I cared.

Harry was an investment banker. I was set up on a date with him by my roommate that knew him through work; they both worked at the National Bank. We had been on this date for 90 minutes and I was bored out of my mind. I had been on dates with men like Harry before, you know the type; lives in the office, and has absolutely no life.

I stayed alert at the beginning of our date, even nodding my head politely when he discussed which stocks, he felt were on the rise. Every once in a while, I let out an "mhmm" to verbally let him know that I was still listening. But after hearing the long list of investments he had profited off of, and him not asking me a single question about myself, I started to lose my interest in anything he had to say.

My glass of merlot was my most recent distraction, but as you have seen, he has ruined that too.

"Are you listening to me?" Harry repeated.

I wasn't. Instead of answering him truthfully, I looked at him directly in the eye, and said "Yes. I was listening."

I could have made a guess of what he was talking about, probably more stocks. I had made some investments myself, but if I wanted to talk about them, I would have booked a meeting with my stockbroker instead of going on a date.

Harry looked taken aback by my curt response, and I wondered if he was going to ask me to repeat what he had just said. I had flashbacks to the third grade, when Miss. Eaves would catch me in a moment of reverie, my eyes lost somewhere outside the window. I was rarely able to give her a response she was happy with.

Harry looked a bit flustered. He had probably just realized that this date wasn't going as well as he would have liked. I took his moment of silence as my first opportunity to speak.

"So, Harry," I said, "What do you do for fun?"

Harry once again looked flustered as he flushed a deep shade of red, reminding me of that glass of wine that I was so lost in. I took a sip.

Our date puttered along awkwardly for another twenty minutes, before I politely asked the waiter for the bill. I made sure that it was split in half. I didn't want him to expect a second. Afterwards, we stood outside in an uncomfortable silence, before saying our goodbyes. He offered me a ride, but I said that I was just going to call a cab.

As Harry walked away, I hovered outside of the restaurant, still thinking about my glass of wine. It was rich, lush, and delicious. I stood for a moment, pondering what to do next. I wasn't ready to go home. My roommate, Britt, is at her boyfriend's house tonight. Something about a bad date made the thought of going home to a darkened empty apartment feel incredibly lonely. I thought about the dishes in the sink that I had to get around to, and I felt another twinge of dread.

I looked back into the restaurant. Two-seater tables were lined with couples, and across the length of the restaurant was an empty bar. I checked my watch. It was barely 8 o'clock, early enough to get another drink before going home. I made my way back inside, giving the host a nod, as I walked past her to the bar.

I slid onto the stool, and felt that happiest I had all night. I loved the hum of the restaurant. I could hear couples laughing and chatting. Waiters’ steps tapped across the floor, and the beautiful ring of wine glasses chimed as they were clinked together.

It's funny how that works. You can be seated across from someone and feel like the loneliest person in the world, or you can be by yourself, never having felt more fulfilled.

"what can I get you," I hear a smooth Italian accent.

Once again, I am snapped out of my thoughts.

I look up, ready to order, the name of the merlot already on my lips, I can almost taste it, but I am stopped. Looking at the bartender, I am confronted by one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen in my life. His skin is a radiant shade of tan. Loose brown locks fall on his forehead, and I am entranced by the deepest shade of brown eyes.

I am speechless for a moment, before I can feel myself redden. I start to feel bad for my last date, I guess it's my turn to blush.

"C-c-could I get a glass of merlot?" I stutter, and I blush a deeper shade of red.

"Yes, right away bella," the word roll off his lips.

He disappears into the back, and I am left in a daze. "Where do they find men like this?" I think to myself. I imagine a bizarre scenario where the restaurant scouted beautiful Italian men, to attract silly women like me.

I sat self-consciously, now feeling uncomfortable at the empty bar. "How was I supposed to sit across from him?" I thought to myself. Maybe I could finish my wine quickly, and get out of here as soon as possible.

I wasn't sure if other people felt this way, but beautiful men, really beautiful men made me uneasy. I would get frazzled and red faced, and then embarrassed because I was frazzled and red faced. I looked around wondering if I had time to dart out the door.

To my dismay, at that moment he entered with a fresh bottle of wine. He uncorked it in front of me, and I looked down at the table shyly.

"I wanted to get you a fresh bottle from the cellar." he said.

I nodded stupidly, not knowing how to respond.

"A wine like this needs to be appreciated," he continued, looking up at me, then blinding me with the flash of a smile.

I felt incredibly shy. My mind flashed to my childhood, when I changed schools. So out of my element, I couldn't get a word out for the first few days. He continued to fixate his eyes on me.

"Here," he said, placing the glass in front of me. "What do you think?"

I swirled the glass in my hand, giving it a moment to aerate before taking a sip. I tasted rich cherries, a hint of dates, and the faintest spice. I sat for a moment taking it all in, before saying, "It's delicious." He beamed. Clearly triumphant with the extra effort he took to get a new bottle. His eyes scanned the restaurant.

"It is not so busy right now," he said, "would you like to try some more wines?"

With the low lights of the bar, I could see that there were warmer notes of caramel in his iris. "Pretty," I thought to myself.

"Sure," I stammered clumsily, before taking another sip to calm my nerves.

He brought out a fresh glass, and poured a splash of another bottle into it. The colour was darker than the one in my hands, more of a velvety plum.

"This one," he said, as he handed the glass to me, "is from my home region of Veneto."

"I have never been to Italy before," I admitted, slightly embarrassed. Most people my age had traveled a lot more than I ever had. "I've never even been outside of the Midwest."

"I could take you" he offered with confidence. I assumed he only said this to be polite.

"You would love it," he continued, "It is the most beautiful place on earth, especially Verona, which I am sure you must know of."

I flashed back to my freshman year of high school, when we read Romeo and Juliet. The unsteady desks and hostile fluorescent lights weren't the best environment to experience Shakespeare.

"It sounds incredible," I say, before taking a sip of the new wine. I savour it, and for a moment, I feel as though I can taste the warm hills of Italy. Some kind of terroir that made its way here to Chicago.

"Where are you from?" he asks me, as if expecting the most captivating response in the world.

"Just here" I answer begrudgingly, wishing I was from somewhere more interesting. "I grew up about an hour south of here in a small farming community. All we have is wheat and more wheat," I laughed.

"Endless miles of wheat," he said sincerely, "It sounds beautiful."

I almost laughed at his intensity, but bit my lip to stop myself. I didn't want him to think I was mocking his friendliness.

"So, what are you doing here?" I asked, "wouldn't you rather be in the rolling hills of Italy?"

"Yes, my home is beautiful," he started, "but there are so many beautiful things around the world to see, I don't want to live knowing I missed them" he gestured towards me.

If any other guy had spoken to me like this, I probably would have rolled my eyes. I was clearly a sucker for an accent, and every word that he said sounded like honey to my ears.

I started to relax, the wine giving me the perfect amount of liquid courage to finally speak with ease. We discussed his travels, and aspirations to be a writer. He asked me about my time in art school, my work in advertising, and my dreams of leaving it all behind to become a full-time artist. Something, I still didn't have the bravery to do. Unfortunately, needing money for rent and food kept me tethered to my day job.

We discussed our love of the outdoors, and the places we wanted to go. He said that he really wanted to drive down to Kansas to see a tornado. I wondered about the safety and feasibility of the endeavour.

At the end of the night, he let me sit at the bar, while he and the waiters closed up the restaurant. My glass was almost empty, but I wanted to savour the last sip. After he had cashed-out, he pulled on a soft leather jacket, and said "Come, I'll walk you home."

"I'm almost an hour’s walk away," I laughed at the absurdity of the distance. He merely took my hand and said "So we will make it a journey."

We walked through the darkened city streets. It was quiet. The wet ground revealed it had rained while we were inside. The road glistened and reflected light from the street lamps.

Our walk passed more quickly than I would have hoped, as we finally arrived at the entrance to my Chicago brownstone. I hoped for a real kiss, but instead he pulled me in, and gently pressed his lips to one cheek, and then the next. I inhaled the scent of leather and tobacco off of his jacket, and just like that, he was on his way.

"It was lovely to meet you, bella," he said, as he walked away.

I stood there for a moment, breathless and in a daze. I wondered if I would ever see him again. He didn't ask for my number. "He probably didn't like me," I rationalized. I wondered if Italian hospitality included walking strangers’ long distances to their homes.

The night air was cool, and I started to feel a chill. With an ache of disappointment, I walked up the steps, and let myself inside. As expected, my apartment was empty. I pulled off my suffocating dress, and slipped into an old t-shirt and sweats. I rolled into bed, and pulled the covers up to my chest.

My mind was lost in thoughts of him. His name was Marco. He had told me at some point in the night. I let my mind wander restlessly for a while, before I succumbed to my fatigue, and fell listlessly into sleep.

The next morning, I awoke. I gave out a deep stretch that I gravely needed. Those bar stools couldn't be good for my posture. I looked at the flood of light that filled my room, illuminating everything with a warm morning glow. I love Saturday mornings like this. When the sun is bright, and there isn't a care in the world.

When I entered the kitchen to make coffee, I was surprised to see my roommate Britt.

"You're home early," I observed, as I turned on the pot.

"I needed to grab my laptop to get some work done," she said with a shrug, "you know, working on the weekend," she rolled her eyes.

"I don't envy you" I laughed.

A look came across Britt's face as if she had just remembered something. "So," she beamed, "how was your date?

I blushed for a moment remembering Marco, before I realized that she actually meant Harry from earlier in the night. "Oh." I said with a tone of disappointment, before I lied " It went great, really great."

Britt's eyes narrowed, "Your date with Harry went great?" she interrogated.

"Erm... yes, great." I said forcing a smile.

"Really?" she said inquisitively, and I felt naked thinking she could see through my farce."Then why did some guy named Marco leave you a package outside our door this morning?" She asserted, looking pleased with herself.

"Wait, what?" I said excitedly, "he left me a package?" I beamed.

"Yes, it’s on the front table," Brit grinned.

I dashed to the front door, seeing a brown package resting on our console table. I grabbed it and brought it to the couch, ready to tear it open. Something about getting a delivery makes it feel like Christmas morning. Britt sat next to me, she looked almost as excited as me to see what was inside.

I first looked at the note, "So you can have a taste of Italy, - Marco" it said, and he had scribbled his number below. I placed the note delicately on the table, terrified that I might lose it. I eagerly tore open the package, labelled Bright Cellars. I ripped the box slightly, before revealing a shiny glass bottle.

"Wine?" asked Britt, looking into the box.

I pulled out the bottle, and eyed the label. "Merlot," I said with a grin. I turned the bottle in my hands, letting the light catch it, and thought about what it might taste like. "Italy, the sun on rolling hills, and the promise of a kiss," I felt on my lips.