Moving Chairs

Martha wakes to a damp night-shirt, and a spidery pricking sensation at the nape of her neck. With a deep sigh, Martha maneuvers herself over to the bed’s edge. Her breath is labored, but soon recovers. She notices the drape of fleshy weight that folds over her side and grazes the dimpled cotton sheets. There are curious moles, blotches, and purply-pink streaks, etched over her abdomen and thighs. Her eyes scrutinize over the well-traveled maps, before traveling to her feet, provoking her to notice the wideness of them, and the overgrown toenail on her left big toe.

Martha had dreamt of being trapped in a cavernous round tunnel. Frantically feeling for a way out, Martha’s hands soon became covered in welts and splinters. The smell of wood filled the space, and the more vigorously that Martha searched for an opening, the round barrel inched closer and nearer to Martha’s trembling frame.

Martha notices the papercut on her index finger, and remembers with a cold wash of dread, that her date is scheduled for tonight at the local winery, that he had recommended. Satisfied from where the nightmare materialized from, she pulls herself from the bed and trudges toward the bathroom.

Martha’s apartment is punctuated by fiction novels, novellas, anthologies, and essays. They are on the nightstand, the kitchen counter-top, the couch, the coffee table, the dresser, and even the floor –where stacks of colorful books have settled upon the warped floorboards, like puddles. Martha is accustomed to dodging the book piles, when moving from point a to b inside her flat. She brushes against them like strangers on the subway, and sporadically picks up a title and thumbs through its pages, searching for something to distract, even if for only awhile.

Mr. Darcy, Martha’s cat, paws at the books until they spread like a butterfly, waiting for him to pounce. Martha chuckles at the self-satisfied smugness on Mr. Darcy’s pudgy, ginger-white face, as he does so.

Martha is off to work, except today is different than most days. Yes, Martha enjoyed the same white-bread tuna sandwich, covertly behind the front desk. And, yes, Martha spent the day reorganizing books, scanning books, filing books, wiping down books, and cradling them to rest where they belong onto shelves. And, yes, the teenagers milling about were once again, too loud, and yes, Cynthia the other librarian, made too much dull small talk. And yes, the 1997 computer with dementia, struggled with the simplest of tasks. And yet, tonight Martha will not return home to Mr. Darcy, a cup of chamomile tea, and a good book.

Martha has a date.

His name is Tim. Tim is Cynthia’s older brother. It was Cynthia’s idea to arrange for the blind-date. Martha knows that he is an accountant who considers himself a bookworm, with little interest in anything outside what he can find between the lines on a page.

“He is perfect for you, little mouse!” Cynthia laughs, adjusting the wire glasses that have slumped over her sleight, freckled nose.

Martha is longing for the curves of her sofa, and the characters in her current book, A Time for Romance. How could this blind date out-mystify the mysterious bespoke of a well-written romance? How could Tim the accountant, with a penchant for books, outshine the timeless sultriness of Claude, the untrusting sea-captain on a quest to rediscover his beloved after many years treading the tumultuous, unknown waters?

The winery is large and cavernous, with ceilings that swell like a kite, high above. When asking for a table, Martha hears her voice faintly echo, and she readjusts the turtleneck cowl to meet her dimpled chin.

“Right here miss,” the waitress signals. “Will this be for one?”

“No, actually I’m meeting someone – they should be here shortly,” Martha retorts, feeling her cheeks flush with colour. “May I order some chamomile tea?”

“Coming right up.”

Martha scours the dining area and entrance, but there is no sign of anyone unaccompanied, or appearing out of their element, with a bobbing head, like a fish out of water. There is a cool chill in the air, that is contrasted by the steaming vessel of chamomile tea at Martha’s fingertips, and she is reminded of Claude and his search for Vanessa. Entranced by the image of Claude taking Vanessa in a firm embrace, her internal ruminations are abruptly interrupted by the man that has seated himself nearby. The man is certainly not Tim, Martha surmises, overhearing the waiter greet the man like a regular. Then there was something mentioned about him returning this evening to finally try le cordon bleu, with the merlot.

“I’m trying all the pairings … finding the perfect match,” the man boasts. The waiter smiles with a sentiment of praise and leaves him with the menu. Martha observes as the man’s eyes glimmer with possibility as he continues to finger the menu, despite the order having already been placed.

The waiter returns with a bottle of wine, cloaked in a white sheath, and angles the vessel towards the man, as if presenting a gift. The man’s torso quivers with anticipation, as the waiter slowly uncorks the bottle and pours the stream of garnet over the stemmed glass. For a moment, Martha is distracted from the visions of Claude and Vanessa and is mesmerized by this man who reaches to embrace the glass, without hesitation. There is a rare passion that traverses his face as he noses the red, and cradles the crystal goblet, creating swirls that if the eye could see, Martha imagines usher notes of exotic fruits, foreign lands, even the recollections of forbidden love. Martha is reminded of how she enjoys burying her nose in the spines of books, to inhale their familiar scent.

“We hope you enjoy our 2011 merlot, Mr. Romano,” the waiter begins. The man appears satisfied but has yet to take a sip. Martha is reminded of her skill at knowing exactly which novel will engross her most, by simply the level of quality and care that she could ascertain from the cover.

The waiter continues. And both the man, and Martha, keenly tarry on every word. By this point, Martha has nearly forgotten all about Tim, let alone, Claude and Vanessa.

“This particular merlot is named Little Blackbird, after the French meaning of the word, merlot,” the waiter shares.

“Little blackbird,” Martha whispers to herself. The words slip from her tongue like a poem meant to be read aloud.

With a shrewd eye, the man studies the glass and widens his eyes while swirling every morsel between his teeth, before swallowing. The man smiles with pleasure. “Please continue,” he tells the waiter with confidence.

“This merlot is known for its soft, sensual texture. You may pick up a range of delightful flavors, ranging from earthy graphite, or an herbal bouquet, met with the fruitiness of blackberries, plums, and rich depth, reminiscent of cocoa.”

“Yes, yes, and something like clove,” the man adds with a piercing look, like that of Claude scouring the horizon for distant shores. “How was this aged, exactly?”

“Good, very good. Aged in oak barrels, sir.”

“Beautiful.”

In a sudden shift, the man glances toward Martha. She stiffens.

“You! You over there. Are you quite busy? Come try this, you must. You simply must,” the man enthuses, ushering her to come over with his free hand.

Martha feels a spidery tingle at the nape of neck and wants more than anything to be behind some bookshelf.

And yet, Martha maneuvers herself from the table, feeling her flesh unstick from the leather chair, and seats herself across from this mystery man.

The waiter grabs an empty glass from a nearby table and pours a glass of merlot for Martha.

Her body quivers with the same anticipation that she observed, only moments earlier.

“Enjoy,” says the man, with a wide, sumptuous grin.

END