My Medicine, Merlot

My Medicine, Merlot.

She curved with such a small gradient that he barely noticed a change in shape as he explored her: a surface that reflected back the dim hue of candlelight that danced in front of him, containing a pool of ruby. She was adequately filled with Merlot, the only medicine that brought back his lost lover, you. An empty chair sat opposite him, and he pictured a silhouette in it, smiling at his fantasy. Countless couples surrounded him, flaunting the love they thought they had. They believed love was timeless. How naive, he thought.

His hair was disheveled, and eyes fractured with networks of bloodshot red, like webs of pain. It had been a while since he last indulged and allowed you to flicker into existence. He had not spoken to you, nor danced with you, therefore hoped to make up for lost time. You had so much to talk about! You could have shown these imposters what it was really like to be in love, he thought.

His date arrived, and he refused to stand, allowing her instead to search for him; he did not need to take off her jacket, for it was not too difficult of an endeavor; he did not want to pull out her chair, for she could do so herself. She shuffled into the chair opposite him, blushing from awkwardness and gaunt stares.

“I’m Ally,” she muttered, in the usual nervous tone. She held a limp hand out, and he met it with his in the centre of the table, reaching over his glass of hope. “You’re Daniel, right?”

“Yes, it’s Dan. Nice to meet you.” he replied, bluntly. The time to drink had arrived. Finally. His hand released her delicate grasp, rejecting her attempt to linger, and clasped the beautiful curvature of the glass. He knew the consequences of his mission but could not wait to see you.

He lifted it to his lips, and they clasped the rim as he poured. There was an explosion of fruit, as if an orchard of everything perfect had grown and died in his mouth. Splashes of sweet raspberry and plum, darkened by mysterious undertones of blackberries and cherries. His eyes flickered from pure pleasure, and he soon allowed himself to swallow. It felt like a stream of phosphorescence burrowing into his chest, illuminating the darkness within. It reminded him of your adventure in the orchard, running through fields of berries and picking those that looked the most appealing. You had a bottle of Merlot hanging from your satchel, which you both finished under a tree. You did not need the ambiance of a restaurant as the atmosphere followed wherever you went. You lay on his chest that night, hands intertwined – your minds continuing to intertwine. You told him you loved him.

As he placed the glass back on the table, he noticed the crescent that he had left on its surface, like a blood moon, or a sinister smile, tainted with an orange hue. It released petite droplets of wine, moving on a path that was filled with so much optimism, yet finishing with an awkward stain on the white tablecloth.

He looked up at his date, and she was still talking. It was like white noise, and he continued to answer, as if by default. She had brown hair, delicate waves, which his eyes followed down to her red dress. She wore a gold pendant which fell upon her chest, resting between the crease in her breasts. He swore to himself that he did not look.

Most of the conversation was a blur, and his neck began to ache from the tedious nodding. He was only brought to attention by the question that he dreaded answering the most.

“So, why are you single?”

As if by instinct, he refilled his glass and began to drink again, the only escape from the question. He inhaled when close enough, greeting another sense with the pleasure of the wine. A river of warmth flowed through each nostril. As he swallowed again, already expecting the burst of berries, he was greeted with a finish of chocolate, and thought of you. He thought of nights on the sofa, curled up like playful kittens, finishing bottles of wine that you could never pronounce. Your visions were hazed, hearts filled with something that words could never do justice. You did not need the luxury of a restaurant, instead finding splendour in only each other’s company.

She was still talking by the time he looked up, but he started to admire some of her features. Her petite nose looked something like yours; her eyes had a tint of emerald, similar to yours; her lips, and the way they curled with each word, were identical to yours. Still, he was oblivious to the words that were coming out of them, continuing to nod.

“Would you like more wine?” He interrupted, already summoning the waiter to bring another bottle. He topped up both glasses, watching the waterfall spill with such grace. He accidentally overfilled his own, with the once lonely droplet on the tablecloth being joined by a flood of crimson, like a halo around the glass. He took another mouthful. The bottle read ‘Bordeaux’, reminding him of a time that you once spent together in France. He thought of the quiet lull of a violin, and the charming accent of the French. He walked you through lamp-lit streets, dancing as if the stars were your crowd, yet careless of their opinion. We argued that night, he remembered.

He blinked to consciousness, and arrived back in the cramped restaurant, surrounded by tables and curious eyes. The violin was replaced by a monotonous murmur of voices. Her eyes still seemed to mirror yours, like viridescent gems. Her hair, through his blurred vision, became yours, and his foggy mind began to see you. It was working. Finally.

“I’m so glad that you’re here.” He uttered, speaking to you, not her.

He heard you respond. You told me you loved me, he thought. Her hands resembled yours, and her smile became something beautiful. Your smile was always something beautiful.

“Cheers,” He lifted his glass, hand slightly trembling, still in disbelief that he was watching you come to life in front of his eyes. As his hand quivered, the red ocean in his glass rippled, like waves on the beach, or a peaceful storm. “To us.”

As your glasses collided, they released the most delightful harmony, radiating around the room. Couples hesitated, curious as to where the sweet melody came from, now blessing the ears of all. They want what we have but cannot have it, he thought. He poured more into his mouth, caressing the smooth surface of the glass with his bottom lip. Once returned to the table, he admired the artwork that he had left behind: waves of sanguine and scarlet, slowly descending the surface. It was a masterpiece.

We did argue that night, he thought. He remembered that you left him. He waited for hours, finishing what you had left in the bottle whilst reminiscing upon what could have gone wrong, head hung like a snowdrop. The vibrant Parisian backdrop contrasted his internal emptiness; the scattered lights that seemed to flicker as his vision stumbled to clarity contrasted the dying ember that he tried so hard to keep alive.

“Why did you leave?” He asked you. Before you could finish your sentence, he pushed his chair out from beneath him and rose to his feet, alarming other couples who must have craved the courage to attempt something such as this.

“Dance with me,” He requested, and you complied. He stumbled around to pull out your chair. As chivalrous as a knight, he took your hand, placing his other around your waist to caress you. He pulled you to the centre of the room, all others diminishing, and danced, as if it were muscle memory. Your breath on his neck gave him goosebumps. He spun you in circles, and you fell into his arms, just like that night. He paused the moment, returning to reality to take another gulp of Merlot, this time straight from the bottle, before escaping to you again.

“Can we just stay here forever?” he whispered in your ear, more as a desperate plea than an attempt to woo. You kissed him – slowly, passionately. Every step was the same as that night, every heartbeat perfectly in time.

But these identical moments only meant that the inevitable was approaching. He had been here countless times, and it always ended the same. You would soon tell him that you had to leave. You would soon tell him you no longer loved him.

“You still love me, right?” he inquired, with an undertone of anguish. The dancing stopped, and he darted for the wine in an attempt to stay for a little longer, finishing the bottle. “Tell me you still love me.”

Figures, couples began to synthesise around him, as the effects of the medicine began to perish. Your face rotted into hers, revealing her concerned gaze.

“I’ve only just met you, Daniel.” She responded, with her alarmed scrutiny deteriorating into that of fear.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve known me for your whole life!” Daniel grasped the bottle from the table and lifted it to his mouth, forgetting that he had already finished it. He held it upside down over his tongue, hitting the bottle like a drum in the hope of finding a single hidden droplet. His search was successful, and, as if in slow motion, he watched it hesitate on the rim of the bottle, fearful of falling, before leaping into his mouth. He savoured the final explosion of flavour, closing his eyes momentarily to truly concentrate on it, before looking back at her. She no longer possessed a single feature of yours.

“How about we just…”

“Stop it, Daniel. I’m leaving. I could never love you.”

She picked her bag up from the floor and walked out of the restaurant, past a crowd of sympathetic couples. The murmur was silenced, replaced by the tapping of her heels, slowly fading into a delicate whisper and finishing on silence.

You left me again, he thought. You left me. I will continue to drink until you stick around, or until I drown. Why did you have to leave? I waited for hours in that lonely hotel room, drinking you into existence, praying for your return, he thought. I wonder where you are now. Are you dancing with somebody else? I promise, he will never love you like I did. He will never love you like I do, he thought.

Daniel returned to his seat opposite the empty chair and placed a hand in the air.

“More Merlot, please.”