Merlot

“You want me to help you what?!”

Her granddaughter’s astonishment didn’t stir Marie in the slightest. She removed her famous walnut-chocolate-chunk cookies from the oven with a nonchalance that decades of practice and repetition confer.

“Well, don’t sound so surprised,” Marie laughed, plating the cookies with grandmaternal care. She set the plate in front of Liz.

“Here, your favorite. Fresh out of the oven.”

Liz regarded the cookies with a kind of jarred stoicism, before turning her eyes back to her grandmother.

“Grammy, I love you, but--”

“You helped me set up the Facebook. I don’t see how this is any different.”

Marie recoiled at the sound of her own words. She knew she just made a misstep.

“Speaking of,” Liz raised a finger, “can we please take my photos down from your profile?”

This was a topic Marie had hoped to avoid. Liz kept bugging her to take down the photos she posted of her. Why would she do that, though? She was proud of Liz. Liz was beautiful. The most beautiful girl in the whole world - and she wasn’t just saying that because she was her grandmother.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Marie snipped. “You don’t like my cookies anymore?”

“What? No. I was just--” Liz cut herself off, taking a sheepish bite of a cookie.

Marie was proud of herself for that masterful pivot. She decided to push her request again.

“Look, Liz. I need your help.”

Marie patted down the worn gingham apron, which was her mother’s before hers, and knelt by her granddaughter.

“Your Grammy wants to use Tinder.”

____________________________________________________

Maybe Liz was right not to help her. Maybe she was too old to be dating. Maybe--

No, Marie thought, interrupting her own self-doubt. She had prayed on this for weeks and was determined to follow through. Besides, Frank had been gone for a year now. Even before that, though, it’s not like he was ever really there.

He wasn’t a bad man by any means. He was honest. Hardworking. He gave her children and provided for the family. But her life was never like the pictures. No moonlit walks or kissing in the rain. No sipping on French wine or slow dancing in gentle harmony.

Frank wasn’t a bad man by any means, she reprised the thought. He was honest. Hardworking. But he never brought her joy, or excitement, or romance.

And that’s all she wanted: romance. If only once in her life.

____________________________________________________

As it turns out, Tinder wasn’t that hard to set up. All she had to do was log in through Facebook. And just like that, a world of eligible bachelors rested at her fingertips.

____________________________________________________

“Bruce,” she savored the word as she got herself made up. Marie hadn’t put this much effort into her beauty since… She couldn’t remember when. She was happy to do it for Bruce, though. He loved music, and baking, and dogs. He even made his profile picture a dog - which would turn off most women, Marie thought, but she wasn’t superficial like the rest of them. She didn’t care what he looked like.

“Bruce,” she sighed into a smile as she danced out of her bathroom.

Waiting for her in the other room, though, was the harshest of critics, just sitting there, glaring at her with disapprobation.

Frank seemed so smug in his urn. She could hear him telling her that she was being ridiculous. She should just stay home. His immaterial words caused her to waver. Wouldn’t it be easier, she thought, just to eat some ice cream in front of the TV?

“No,” she proclaimed aloud, “I’m doing this!”

Her decision spurred on imagined protestations from her ashen husband, which she dismissed with a wave of her hand and a simple command: “Oh, hush!”

She grabbed the time-worn, hand-scribbled recipe for her famous walnut-chocolate-chunk cookies and strutted to the door. Before leaving, though, she gave herself a final once-over in the mirror and thought, for the first time in a long time, that she looked hot.

While hotness is subjective, she was, at the very least, objectively flammable. She did, after all, love her hairspray.

____________________________________________________

There must have been a mistake. Marie couldn’t believe her eyes.

The hostess departed, and this man that was supposedly Bruce rose to an awkward stance. He was clearly just as shocked to see her as she was to see him.

He was a strapping young man, as my mother would say, as Marie’s daughter would say. He was young enough to be her grandson. Marie had never been so mortified.

“Mar… Marie?” His voice vacillated.

Her heart, fluttering just moments ago, seemed to have come to a complete stop. She could see it in his eyes: abject disappointment. The urn was right; she should have just stayed home.

She took a step back, thoroughly humiliated. Her recipe slipped out of her hand. She didn’t even notice. She barely managed to eek out a few syllables.

“I’m sorry…”

And with that, she turned around, and marched out of the restaurant.

She found some small comfort in the fact that she chose a place within walking distance of home. The fresh air would do her good.

Before she could make her way back, though, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Marie?”

And there stood Bruce, whose youth continued to torment her.

“You dropped this.”

He handed over her recipe.

“Oh,” Marie chuckled uncomfortably, “that’s a cookie recipe of mine.”

“Really?” Bruce lit up, “ I love baking.”

“I… I know.”

Marie twiddled her thumbs.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, “I don’t know how this happened. I thought you were… Like me”

“And I thought you were like me,” echoed Bruce. “You know, your profile picture is of a young… Is of someone my age.”

“I never put up a profile picture.”

“Then it probably just pulled it from Facebook.”

“Liz...” Marie sighed before asking what she had been wondering since she’d first laid eyes on him.

“How are people supposed to know how old you are? Your photo’s just a dog.”

“I have other photos, you just need to--”

“You can have more than one photo?”

There was something endearing about the naïveté of Marie’s interjection. It made Bruce smile.

And then he proffered an offer that Marie could never have foreseen.

“Look,” he started, “neither of us have plans. There’s no reason we can’t have a fun night. You still want dinner?”

____________________________________________________

“So you add in chili powder?” Bruce inquired, inspecting the recipe.

“Yes, a little bit brings out the flavor of the chocolate. But that’s a secret,” Marie divulged, raising a single finger to her lips.

So engrossed were they in their conversation that neither of them noticed the waiter approach.

“Anything to drink?”

“Oh, yes!”

Marie scrambled for a menu.

“You first, Bruce. I haven’t looked yet.”

Marie scanned the menu as Bruce made his order. This was her chance to try French wine. She searched the list up and down until she found a word that looked French: merlot.

“And for you, ma’am?”

The waiter directed himself towards her. She was practically giddy.

“Yes, I’ll take the murr-lit, please.”

The waiter allowed himself a few confounded blinks before writing down what he interpreted as her order.

Marie leaned across the table towards Bruce.

“Let me ask you something,” she began, “there was one other guy I was talking to online. He also had a dog photo. He asked me a question I didn’t understand.”

“What did he want to know?”

Bruce’s interest was genuinely piqued.

“He asked if I was DTF. What does that mean?”

Bruce choked on his water.

The waiter returned with their drinks.

Bruce thought he was saved by the bell. Marie thought maybe he just didn’t hear her. She asked louder.

“Bruce, do you think I’m DTF?”

Now they were gaining an audience, and Bruce was blushing feverishly. He couldn’t muster an answer. Marie continued at her raised volume.

“So, what does DT--”

“He… He wanted to know if you were interested in him.”

“Oh. That’s it? Why not just ask that?”

Marie took a sip of her merlot. It was divine.

Bruce took a swig of his whiskey. He thought he might need the strength.

____________________________________________________

The evening progressed, and the pair had a lovely time. They were finishing dessert when Marie got distracted. She watched dreamily as other couples danced to the rhythm of the live band.

Bruce noticed that her thoughts were elsewhere. Perhaps he was just perceptive. Perhaps it’s just hard to miss when someone trails off mid-sentence. Whatever the case may be, Bruce had grown fond of Marie and wanted to ensure that she enjoyed herself; so, he did what he would have never had the courage to do on any other first date: he asked her to dance.

Marie would normally be more bashful, but the merlot was in her system now, and she wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity.

It was just as she had hoped. He held her, and she held him, and they moved together with the music.

She closed her eyes, and it was like heaven. She felt so contented and warm.

Not warm. Hot. Too hot. She opened her eyes. For just a moment, Bruce was frozen. She read horror in his eyes. If she could see the busboy who had walked a little too close to her carrying a candle, she would have seen the same horror in his eyes as well. It wasn’t his fault, though. He didn’t know about the hairspray. He didn’t know she was objectively flammable.

After a protracted second of immobility, Bruce ran to a table, grabbed a glass of water, and poured it over Marie’s head.

There she stood, in the middle of the restaurant, smoking hair and running makeup.

Raw emotion shone in her eyes. Bruce registered her expression immediately and empathically felt the same thing she did: unadulterated humor.

They broke down into a wild fit of laughter.

____________________________________________________

They split the bill and made their way to the door. Before they left, though, Marie had to satisfy one last shred of curiosity. She called over the waiter.

“Excuse me, sir,” she started, “where exactly in France was my wine from?”

The waiter responded with dry bemusement.

“From Argentina.”

Marie had never realized that Argentina was part of France. You learn something new every day.

____________________________________________________

Bruce offered to walk Marie home that night, and by the time they arrived at her door, it had started to rain.

Marie didn’t want to detain him in such weather for long, but she told him to wait one moment. She had something for him.

She ran inside, grabbed a pen and paper, and jotted something down. He was kind enough to show her a good time tonight, even though he was expecting Liz. Fair was fair.

“This is my granddaughter’s phone number.”

She handed him the paper.

“You’re a good person, Bruce. If you go out with her, I think she’ll be DTF.”

And with that, Marie gave Bruce a supremely sweet kiss on the cheek.

He was speechless, but managed to respond in kind, giving her a kiss as well.

The evening was perfect. Just like the pictures.

____________________________________________________

Liz had called to let her grandmother know that she and Bruce were going on their second date tonight.

“Aren’t you happy your grandma’s on Tinder?” Marie asked.

“I guess so,” Liz giggled.

“Anyhow,” Liz continued, “ I gotta get ready. Love you, Grammy!”

“I love you more!”

Marie hung up the phone.

She was excited for Liz and looked forward to hearing all about her date with Bruce. She had concluded, though, that she was in fact too old to be dating.

“There, you win,” she conceded to the urn.

However, when her eyes moved on from her Frank’s receptacle to some cherished family photos, she realized something.

She had more granddaughters than Liz, and they were all still single.