Nirvana is in the Merlot

I was walking along the dreary Melbourne street. It was a typical spring night and the sounds of the city buzzed and hummed around me, all familiar noises, yet something about tonight made them sound different. There was a new shine to the streetlights, a sweeter scent in the air, and the normally muted colours seemed brighter. I’d walked this street more times than I could count, however never in anticipation of a date. Maybe that was why everything looked better.

Dating was something I’d all but given up on. Wading through the dating pool had become tedious and depressing and all together disappointing. Was there no one interesting left on the planet? Everyone was so… grey. Dull. I felt like I was the only original human being left, living among a sea of clones and zombies. They all talked the same, worked the same jobs, enjoyed the same boring hobbies, and even dressed the same. It really did nothing for my mood. Where had all the vibrant people gone; the dreamers, the inspired, the quirky cat people, the stargazers and believers in the impossible? People always told me I had my head in the clouds, grimacing as they said it like it was the worst sort of crime. That was the future for you. Everyone was a drone going doggedly about their business, intent on being as grey as possible because society accepted grey. I didn’t care what the greys thought. Up here in the clouds of my imagination thrived a totally different world, too magnificent for mundane folk to comprehend or appreciate. I called it Nirvana.

Nirvana was every artist’s dream home; or at least, I thought it should be. I didn’t actually know any other artists to ask. The future declared artists obsolete, so feeling deserted and alone, I spent many hours getting lost in the wonders of Nirvana. Sometimes I found myself so engrossed in my imagination that I could swear I saw the image of Nirvana overlaying the image of reality, like a watermark, all shimmering and transparent. Maybe I was going insane. Would it really be so bad if I were?

Then I’d met her.

I’d been sitting in the park near my high-rise apartment building, one of the only places that held a semblance of beauty. I use the term ‘park’ rather loosely. It wasn’t much; just a square of green grass, surrounded on all sides by tall buildings, making it feel like I was sitting at the bottom of a well. There was one tree in the very centre of the square, a willow tree, its hanging branches forming a hidden alcove within. This was where I came to read, draw, think and dream. This was where I felt closest to Nirvana. I often liked to draw my imaginings of Nirvana, leaning back against the comfort of the willow’s sturdy trunk, and that is what I’d been doing when she appeared, parting the leafy curtain of the willow and stepping through. Immediately I knew she was different. She wore an elegant, red gothic style dress, the colour of merlot, and the sleeves encasing her arms were made of black lace. Her hair was glossy and black as raven’s feathers, cascading in soft waves to her slender waist. Lipstick the same colour as her dress painted her plump lips, standing out against her creamy skin, and her eyes were dusted with smoky black and gold eye shadow. She was stunning – like the last rose before the winter. And impossible. People like her didn’t exist! Clothes like that couldn’t be found in any store I knew. I gaped at her, blinking, and the corners of her mouth turned up in an amused smile.

“Hello,” she said in a lilting voice that caressed my ears as gracefully as an orchestra’s symphony.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. Surely, I was hallucinating. When I opened my eyes again, she would be gone, a ghost remembered only in my memories. I took a deep breath and peeked anxiously through my lashes. She was still there, still smiling with her head tilted to the side as she watched me.

“Um…” I mumbled stupidly. “Are you real?”

Her throaty laugh swelled upon the air, making me think of wine, honey and chocolate. “I’m as real as you are.”

“Well… you can understand why I’d ask,” I said, sweeping my gaze over her figure. “You don’t exactly look like you belong here.”

“Thank you!” she answered, clearly delighted. “I certainly do not belong here, and neither do you.”

I frowned in confusion. “I get told that all the time by the greys. But you’re not a grey.”

“I’m not, as you are not.” Her eyes glistened knowingly. I had the acute sensation that she could see inside me while she herself remained cloaked in mystery.

“So, who are you then?”

“I’m so glad you asked.” She reached into her cleavage and drew out a card, offering it to me from delicate, red-tipped fingers.

On shaking legs, I stood and walked closer to her, hand outstretched. As I drew nearer, the scent of her perfume washed over me, a blend of patchouli and rainforests. I took the card. It was made of a strange type of paper, silvery, silky and pliant. And it was blank.

“I don’t understand,” I said, bewildered. Couldn’t this woman just be straight with me?

“You will.” She began to walk away, turning to look at me before she disappeared through the branches. “And when you do, darling, I shall be eagerly expecting you. First dates are always such fun.” This time her smile was tinged with a sultry pout, her eyes hooded and dark. With a little wave, she vanished behind the green screen, the swaying of the leaves the only evidence she had ever been there.

Date? What?

In a state of shock, I gave chase, stumbling through the branches in my haste. She was gone. A deep, aching sense of longing blossomed in my chest. She had been an answer, perhaps even the answer. I just wasn’t quite sure what the question was yet. She, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what the question was. She seemed to know me. I held the card up to my face, squinting at it. At that same moment, the clouds that always marred the blue sky shifted, allowing a single ray of sun to burst forth and kiss my skin with a warmth seldom felt, yet always craved. I lifted my face to absorb as much as possible. The card in my hand started to grow warm, pulsing gently. I quickly looked down and saw that writing had appeared, a flowing script of words visible through an imprint of red lips, providing the name of a place and an address.

My heart began to pound in nervous anticipation. She’d said it was going to be a first date. A date with a woman. A date with that woman. I’d tried dating women before. They always ended up the same as the men, bland and bereft of spark. Not this woman.

Under the address was a date and time… today’s date, I realised with horror! And a mere two hours from now! Geez, this woman didn’t give a lot of warning. I guess it’s fine when you look beautiful all the time without even trying, I thought dryly. Agonizingly desperate to see her again, I gathered my belongings scattered around the willow tree and ran home, bursting through the door of my building and pressing the elevator call button over and over, willing it to hurry. Finally, the doors rattled open and I jumped inside, bouncing on the balls of my feet as the elevator began to rise. I was on the fortieth floor. You were considered unlucky to live so high up, so far away from the routine of what people called life. I loved it. I could see everything, and it made me feel closer to my Nirvana. Today though, for the first time, I wished I lived on a lower level.

After what felt an eternity, the lift reached my floor and I flew out, trying to grab my keys from my pocket and getting them tangled in my jacket, then dropping them. I was all clumsiness as I tripped and bumped my way to my door, shoving the key in the lock and tumbling in. My small studio apartment was as colourful as I could possibly make it, yet it was still painfully dismal. The most colour was in a picture hanging on the wall; a geomatical grid of grey, brown and navy.

I hurried to shower and get ready, selecting my prettiest dress; which was actually more like a pinafore made of grey, brown and maroon tartan. I wore a plain black tee underneath, styled my short hair that I’d dyed a brownish shade of red – the most exciting of the hair dyes available – and pulled on my black, sensibly heeled court shoes with a single buckle around the ankle. Even the buckle was ostentatious for the style of the times. Giving myself a last cursory glance in the small mirror above my bathroom sink, I deemed myself ready.

The journey back down to the ground floor seemed to take even longer than the journey up. I clenched and unclenched my hands impatiently, waiting. As soon as the doors opened into the lobby, I jumped through at a run, drawing frowns and tuts from everyone who saw me. Whatever! I flipped them my middle finger as I sped through the entry. I’m pretty sure I heard a woman gasp and faint.

And now here I was, standing before a completely ordinary door, unadorned with any decoration or sign save the number. 42. Was I supposed to knock? There weren’t even any windows I could use to scope out what was inside. I pressed my ear to the door and heard music. Music! Actual music with a rhythm and tune! I grasped the door handle and turned it. It wouldn’t budge. It was then I noticed the flat disc set just above the door handle, like those devices you pressed your card to in hotels. I fished the card out of my pocket and held it against the disk. The door swung silently open to reveal… I wasn’t quite sure what. It was a cosy room, dimly lit by large, exposed lightbulbs hanging from the roof. A few tables and plush lounges were artfully placed around the room to leave an area of floor free; and people were dancing there! Not the hideous, carefully constructed waltz, but proper, shake your whole-body dancing. I stared in awe, drinking it all in.

A movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. It was the woman, every bit as beautiful as before, her raven hair swept up into a mass of waves spilling out of a bun like water from a fountain. Her dress was an emerald green, patterned with black flowers; an emerald stone sat in the hollow of her throat, hanging from a pretty lace choker. She crooked a finger elegantly, beckoning me to go to her. I floated across the floor in a daze, my eyes glued to her face that held so many promises.

“I knew you’d figure it out,” she said, smiling coyly.

“I still don’t know who you are,” I breathed.

The woman handed me a glass of red merlot, our fingers touching as I automatically reached for it. A jolt coursed through my body like I’d touched an electric fence. She raised her own glass of merlot to me in a toast, though I didn’t know what for. Yet, for reasons I couldn’t explain, everything felt right. I brought the glass to my lips, mimicking the woman’s actions and as the first taste of merlot touched my tongue, she said in a voice that sounded hazy and far away… “Darling, welcome to Nirvana.”