Meet Cute

“That’s my delivery,” I tell him, extending my foot to tap the cardboard lid with the toe of my sneaker.

1C, who had bent over to retrieve the box from under the lobby table, straightens to his full height. (I’d pegged him at 6’ 2” or 3" when I first caught a glimpse of him in the laundry room a few weeks ago.) He stares at me blankly.

“Mine,” I say as if to a child. “Stevo always leaves my deliveries here.”

“As he does mine,” 1C says, more somberly that I would have expected from an adult male wearing a hoodie emblazoned with the Nine Inch Nails’ logo along with a faded Red Sox cap. Worn backwards.

I make a show of searching the small lobby, knowing of course, that Stevo has deserted his doorman duties for a quick cigarette. I’d just passed him on the corner. “Well, Stevo doesn’t seem to be nearby. Shall we look at the address label?”

“It’s torn,” 1C counters. “All I could make out was 'first floor'.”

Sighing, I place my grocery bags on the table and peer down to inspect. He’s right, the label’s half off. “But this is my regular wine delivery.” I point to the silhouettes of wine bottles on the side of the box. Perhaps he will understand symbols.

“How can you be so certain?” he smiles. “Men have wine subscriptions. And I live on the first floor also.” This time I notice a glint of green in his otherwise sandy-brown eyes.

“Guess we’ll have to look inside,” I say just as fourth-floor Debbie (not to be confused with Deb on fifth) backs into the lobby, pulling along a double-stroller with her screaming three-year old twins. Behind her are the dentist’s teenage daughters, sauntering in from a run in the park. Stevo manages to trot up at the last minute to hold the door for Mrs. Jackson and her shopping cart, bringing up the rear.

“Why don’t we take the box out into the hallway and open it,” 1C suggests.

Nodding, I weave my way through the newly-arrived throng waiting for the elevator, giving Debbie a brief wave off before she can launch into a list of the twins’ recent achievements.

“Hey Jade,” Stevo yells out, pointing to 1C who is carrying the box under his arm. “I think that’s yours. But can’t be sure. Blair gets the same stuff you do.”

Blair? Sounds a bit pretentious. But those eyes.

“I’ve got a pocketknife,” I begin when he settles the box in front of my door (Hmmm that’s interesting), but 1C—Blair—has already taken out a corkscrew from his jeans pocket. He quickly peels back the lid and takes out the packing slip.

“Dancing Juice, Mojave Rain, The Latin Root, and Meet Cute,” he reads off.

I feel the buzz of victory. “There you are, see? That sounds right. It’s my case.”

Now he’s smiling—no grinning. “Can you believe it?” he says. “Those are my matches too!” I suddenly decide that he is kind of cute in a goofy, Labrador Retriever kind of way.

“Really? You’re kidding. What are the odds—?”

“The wine matching quiz—Love dark chocolate and a good book?” he asks.

“Yes!”

We lock eyes. A delightful chill passes through me.

“Uhm, want to come in and try a bottle?” I hear myself saying.

Thirty minutes later, Blair—he’d introduced himself formally while I plated the gorgonzola and focaccia—is swirling a glass of the Mojave Rain. “Not a bad Merlot,” he says, taking another sip. “I can taste a bit of plum . . .yes . . . and raspberry I believe.”

“Not impressed,” I reply, picking up the card he had partially hidden under my aloe vera plant. I begin reading the text supplied by the home-delivery sommelier: “Mojave Rain. Brimming with dark fruit aromas of juicy plum, raspberry and black cherry, this wine has smooth, velvety tannins and—.”

He raises his hands, smiling. “You caught me Jade. Guilty as charged. But hey, what are ‘velvety tannins’ anyway?”

I take a sip from the quarter-glass Blair has just poured for me. “If you have to ask . . . " I say.

“You don’t know either, do you?”

“Something to do with the wine’s texture, why don’t we Google it?”

For the next two hours, we sample three of the bottles and check off all the preliminaries. Married? Never. Kids? Nope. Job? Blair’s just been hired to head up a cybersecurity team at the United Nations. Pastimes? Reading—he stresses that point as he glances towards my English professor-filled bookcases—and baseball.

“Now that you’re a New Yorker, you’ll have to ditch the Boston cap,” I tease, snatching it off his head.

“Never!” he runs his fingers through his thick black curls and watches as I don the cap.

My doorbell rings. It’s Stevo holding another case of wine. “The FedEx guy just dropped this off, and when Blair didn’t answer his door . . . well . . . ” The warmth of the wine induces me to return his wink with a slight smile.

I carry the box into the kitchen. “This is a test,” I announce. “If your wine selection is exactly the same as mine, then I officially ask you out for dinner.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Blair asks from his perch at the counter.

“Yes,” I say. “What lies inside will decide your fate.”

“OK,” Bair has taken out his corkscrew again and is opening the cardboard box. He retrieves the packing slip and waves it above his head. “But just so you know, I consider this our first date.”

Then he hands me the invoice.

Which I promptly rip up and throw in the trash bin under the sink.

“Italian or Indian?” I ask.