Merlot Fingers

Merlot Fingers

We met online, and the result of the evening we met in person wasn’t so much that he bragged about owning a Boxster while deliberately mispronouncing the word ‘Boxster’ but that he insisted on calling me Merlot Fingers.

We met while playing Canasta on a gaming website. He was charming and funny. We chatted online, then abandoned that in favor of texting. Once, I was making more than my share of typos, and I apologized with a lie. I told him that I was drinking a glass of Merlot and was feeling no pain at all. He lol’d and said that I had ‘Merlot fingers.’ He sent me a picture, and he looked nice. So, I sent him a picture, which was ‘gorgeous’, apparently. (His word, not mine. See, he was charming.)

After a few weeks of getting to know each other, it became clear that it was time to get serious and meet face-to-face. I suggested that we meet in a public place, to which he agreed and asked me to choose the locale. I picked a funky bookstore called The Hobbit Hole. There was a bar across the street called Café Bière that really felt like a café. They played coffeehouse jazz and there were comfy stuffed chairs and large windows for natural light. They served cocktails, wine and draft beer in paper cups with plastic lids. They wrote your name and order on the paper cups like “Robert – Beaujolais Nouveau 2019 – Good choice!” If the barista were Angela, she would draw stars or hearts in various quantities, depending on her opinion of your choice of beverage. I picked the bookstore because of the bar. If things felt right, then a drink was in order. If not, then a handshake at the bookstore and we would be done. Of course, I hoped it would feel right.

That Wednesday in the late afternoon, I arrived at Café Bière about twenty-five minutes before we were to meet. I ordered and collected my cup (April – Disaronno on the rocks ♡♡♡) and found a seat next to a window. I was a bit nervous. I mean, he could be anyone. I kept remembering the cartoon from the New Yorker where two dogs were at a computer and one was telling the other, “On the internet, nobody knows you’re a dog.” We’d seen pictures of each other, and I’d sent a real one. But did he? I hoped so but had no way of knowing until today.

I was thinking about all that he’d told me about himself. He was 43. His father died a few years ago but his mom was still here, and they were reasonably close. He had one younger sister Donna who was, in his words, ‘a real nut job.’ He grew up in a smallish suburban town. The family was lower-middle-class and I think that he still thought of himself that way. He’d graduated from Oklahoma State University where he wanted to rush a fraternity but was too shy and he still regretted not rushing. (He certainly wasn’t shy now.) He’d had a couple of relationships that didn’t work out. Nothing dramatic or catastrophic, but they simply weren’t right for each other. He said that he still sees one or the other of them from time to time, at a restaurant or grocery store, something like that, and they stop to say a few words. When he told me that, I remembered feeling good about it. A man with limited drama in his life sounded terrific to me.

He told me that he was an entrepreneur and owned a business. He was a little vague about exactly what kind of business. However, that made sense to me. After all, he didn’t know me either. It was entirely possible that I was a real nut job, just like Donna. I gathered his business had to do with food service of some kind. He’d talked about a health inspector visiting.

I sat there until time to go. I was watching to see if I could pick him out if he arrived early. I didn’t see anyone I thought was him, which made me a bit more nervous. I took the last swallow of my drink and then sucked on the ice. (It’s a mortal sin to let even a drop of Disaronno go to waste.) I took a minute to duck into the ladies’ room to touch up my hair and brush my teeth. Then I straightened up and walked across the street. Slowly. As if I didn’t have a care in the world.

We’d agreed to meet in the New Arrivals section. That was near the front door. You know, for a quick getaway if needed. He probably didn’t know that. He sounded like he didn’t know about this place. But there he was, looking just like his picture. I felt a minor wave of relief. We caught each other’s eyes and smiled.

“Jake?” I asked, hand extended.

“April,” he said, taking my hand and leaning in to give me a peck on the cheek. He smelled nice. “You’re shorter than I thought.” I wasn’t sure how to take that.

There was a little Keurig by the register, so we got a cup of coffee and then sat down to chat a little. It was going well, so when my coffee was finished, I suggested a drink at Café Bière. He agreed and we left. Parked at the curb was a dark blue Boxster, a few years old but well-cared for. That’s when he said it.

“Bookstore,” he said, chuckling and motioning to the building behind us. “Book-ster,” he said, motioning to the car. “Mine.” I didn’t really want to laugh. It was a dad joke. But I couldn’t help myself. That’s how dad jokes work. He seemed pleased and put his hand lightly on my upper back to escort me across the street.

Once in the bar, Angela seemed to recognize him and opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke first. “Blue Moon, please.” She picked up a cup and her Sharpie. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before asking “Your name?”

“Jake.” He turned to me. “What will you have?”

I looked at her and said, “April. Disaronno,…”

And in unison, she and I said, “… on the rocks.” We both smiled and chuckled. Jake looked at me, a question on his face.

“I was here earlier,” I said. “Liquid courage.” He smiled, turned back to Angela, and over my protest, paid for our drinks.

“But she’s not April,” he said to her. “Her name is Merlot Fingers.” Angela gave an amused little snort and changed it on my cup, adding (I saw later) a smiley face.

“Really? You remember that?” I asked.

“Sure.” He pulled out his phone. “Call me.” So, I got my phone and called him. His phone lit up and Merlot Fingers appeared on the screen. “See?” I think I blushed a little. He was just too cute by half.

We sat down with our drinks at the same table where I was before. The bar had a small offering of snacks and I ordered some mozzarella sticks. (Incidentally, they were wonderful!) We talked easily and laughed some. My eyes misted a bit when I told him about my beloved cat who had to be put to sleep a few months ago because she was so ill, and he reached over to push a curl of hair behind my ear and wipe a tear from my cheek with his thumb.

Another drink later, it was time for me to get home. He had no way of knowing this, but I lived in a small flat in a converted townhouse just a few minutes’ walk from the bar. I loved this little neighborhood. It was so cozy, like a warm blanket.

I told him that I had a good time, but I needed to go as I had to work in the morning. He asked if he could drive me home. That’s when I told him where I lived and how I didn’t need a ride. Then he offered to walk me home. So, I tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and let him take me home. At my door, he asked for another date, which I agreed to, and we said that we’d meet at Café Bière in a couple of days, at 6:00 pm. He gave me another peck on the cheek, waited until I was inside, and left.

On Friday, I wore a sweatshirt with a discreet Oklahoma State University logo (thank you, Amazon Prime!) and black jeans and walked to the bar. I looked around and he wasn’t there yet. I bought him a Blue Moon and my usual. “Our” table was taken. Nothing’s perfect. I chose another table and sat down. Not two or three minutes later, Jake emerged from the saloon doors that lead to the kitchen, a basket of mozzarella sticks in his hand. Surprised, I put my hands in the universal gesture of what the heck? He grinned and sat down, putting the basket between us.

“OK,” I hesitated a little. “You work here?”

He handed me the menu, with the back page facing up and pointed. “Read that.”

I took it and read about a French-Canadian man named Jacques Toussaint whose family moved to America in his teens. He had loved talking with family and friends over a beer. He had always wanted to own a little café and run it with his wife. But it didn’t work that way. He worked in someone else’s store until he retired. He died suddenly at age 66. In his memory, his widow Sarah Toussaint and his son Jake started Café Bière just a few years ago with the small inheritance he left them.

I laid the menu on the table, a bit overwhelmed, and looked at Jake. He was a business owner like he said, and obviously, he loved his mom and dad a lot. And he didn’t try to impress me with any of this when we first met. (Well, except for the Book-ster. He’s not perfect.) But today, I was impressed.

He took the menu, turned it over, and gave it back to me. On the cover under the logo, there was a list of daily happy hour specials. On Wednesdays, the special was Merlot Fingers: a basket of mozzarella sticks and a glass of Merlot. Substitutions on the wine were allowed and if one didn’t care for Merlot, they suggested a Disaronno on the rocks.

I was right … he’s not perfect, just the next thing to it. And we were off to a good start.