Miss Pancakes and the Glass of Merlot

‘Table for one?’ The hostess smiles a bright toothy grin. ‘Uh, no, for two, I’m um, meeting someone’, I manage, the words sticking in my throat. We weave through the crowded bar, a stumbling man knocks into my shoulder, ‘Hey sexy, let me get you a drink’ he slurs. I nervously shake my head, and push the hair from my face to attempt an answer, though he’s already forgotten me and is swinging his arm over the shoulder of a waitress and making his way back to the bar.

‘Here you are, sweetheart. Can I get you a drink while you wait?’ ‘Yes, a glass of Merlot, please’ I stutter, ‘Oh and some water?’ My mouth feels like sandpaper. My knee crashes into the table leg as I sit down, alerting the couple next to me to my clumsy presence. ‘Sorry’, I cringe. My shirt is itchy against my collarbone.

The waitress places my water and glass of Merlot in front of me, ‘No need to be nervous, love, I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’ ‘Oh no, it’s not a’ I start, but the waitress has moved on to her next table, her reassurance likely motivated by the prospect of a tip, rather than genuine interest in my evening plans.

I run my fingers around the base of the glass and up the stem. I hear my mothers condescending voice in my head, ‘You’re doing that wrong. Hold a wine glasses towards the base of the stem between your thumb, forefinger and middle finger’. I sigh at the weight of the memory and rush a mouthful of water. It settles me and I sip the wine, it warms my mouth. ‘You can do this’ I say to myself, as I look up and see my date enter the bustling room.

‘I don’t have time for one of your dramas today, Hannah.’ My mother is in a grouchy mood, looking for something in her purse. I stand awkwardly in her kitchen with my hands deep in the pockets of my jeans. ‘Mum, I only need a few minutes, it’s important,’ I mumble. ‘Hannah for Christ’s sake, you sound like a child when you mumble. Open your mouth when you speak. Ah! Here it is!’ She opens the brassy tube to reveal the scarlet red lipstick, ‘Your shirt is dirty, did you even notice?’ I look down at the front of my shirt, and brush some crumbs away. ‘Alright, make it quick, what do you need, money?’ she snaps as she purses her lips to reapply the colour. I look to the floor, my mothers cat, Miss Pancakes, blinks up at me from under the bench, titling her head to the side. I take a nervous breath, ‘I’m gay, Mum.’ The sound of my heart beating fills the silent air. The words swirl in my ears, a mix of relief and apprehension.

‘Hannah?’ Her voice is cheerful, ‘You don’t look much like your profile pic!’ ‘Not a reassuring start’, I think, as I stand to greet my date, banging my knee on the table a second time. ‘Goddamn’ I curse myself as I reach out to shake her hand. She’s leaning in to greet me with a kiss on the cheek though, and my hand awkwardly bumps her arm. ‘Oh sorry,’ I say, trying to adjust. ‘It’s okay,’ she places her hands on my shoulders and pecks my cheek briskly, ‘Nice to meet you, what are we drinking?’ she sits effortlessly. ‘Merlot’ I answer, carefully sitting down. ‘Oh I just got the nicest Merlot through my Bright Cellars subscription’ she chirps, as though to herself, ‘I’ll have to ask if they have the same label here!’

‘Gay? You mean lesbian?’ My mothers shrill voice cracks the silence. ‘Well, I guess you could say lesbian, yeah.’ Her eyes blink slowly, heavy with mascara. She purposefully smooths the front of her skirt with both her manicured hands and clicks her tongue, ‘I guess you might still change your mind, Hannah, look, I have to go.’ She snaps her purse shut, and her heals click loudly on the tiles as she marches away down the hall. ‘Honestly, gay,’ she mutters to herself, loudly enough for me to hear, ‘Of all the rubbish things that child has said to me...’ The door slams behind her and I hear the car start not long after. ‘I guess it’s just you and me then’, I say to Miss Pancakes, who miaows in a reassuring response, ‘You’re probably a lesbian, too.’ The cat rubs against my shin, I take it as confirmation.

I’m looking at my lap again, wondering if that’s a loose thread in my jeans or something I’ve spilled, while my date chatters away about some reality television program. ‘Come on, Hannah, you’ve been on dates before!’ My internal monologue is stern, ‘Her being a woman doesn’t make the conversation part any different, just talk to her’. The chattering has stopped and I look up to see her face staring intently, she must have asked a question. ‘Have you seen the show?’ She repeats. ‘Oh, no, I’m not really into reality shows, I like more Studio Ghilbli sort of stuff’, my voice doesn’t sound like my own, it’s so rattled with nerves. ‘Oh that’s a shame’ my date says with boredom, as she swirls her glass and takes a sip. ‘You seem really nervous’ she states. I feel my chest withdraw into my body, and I pick at the band of my watch, ‘This is my first date with a woman, I’ve just come out’ I admit. The weight of the words lift off me and I feel my lungs expand a little. She laughs and tilts her glass into mine. I giggle and attempt conversation, though it dries up after the second glass of Merlot.

The air outside is crisp and electric. Walking to the train station, I wrap my arms around my shoulders. ‘You did it, Hannah’ my voice is kind, ‘You told your mother. You told the dating app. You told that whole restaurant!’ I laugh at my own internal enthusiasm and relief. ‘You have been dreaming of this, being who you are and dating who you want. Your dream is a reality; you went on a date with a woman.’