Pick One

Ok then. Alright. This is it… just pick one, any one.

My god, why didn’t I grab the wine before the date?

There’s like a thousand here in the fridges alone…

And now she gets to watch my choice. Our first interaction and she gets to sit in the judge's seat with that big funny wig.

What’s your opening statement? What are you choosing? Her eyes are asking.

And I’m that sweaty, balding lawyer who’s got the guilty client dressed in a tracksuit.

This is bad.

I hate choice.

And now she looks cold, rubbing her hands together like we’re in the arctic.

Right then, let’s move away from the white wines, away from this icy tundra of a cooling fridge.

Ok. Red. Everyone loves a red.

“Oooh I love red,” she says.

See, everyone loves a red.

Which red? Look how many reds there are. More than the whites.

Is this real? I don’t remember bottle shops having so much to choose from. Too much to choose from. How is this possible?

I bet half of these are all the same; they just slap a different label on them.

The difference is all in our heads.

Woah, woah, woah. Relax on the cynicism. No one likes a cynic. She won’t like a cynic, not on the first date. You leave that for date nine. Then you can reveal all that jazz.

What about this one? A Pinot Noir.

Hints of chocolate. Yeah right. Maybe if I mix it with that chocolate milk I have at home... ohhhh I could go for some choccy milk.

STOP IT.

Be positive. I just don’t have the refined palette that's all.

I’m sure there are hints of chocolate in some wines.

“Hints of chocolate,” I say to her and she smiles.

Alright. How much is this?

Sixty-five dollars.

Huh. Maybe not.

Of course, I don’t want to seem too cheap.

But I also don’t want to seem like I’m ‘flexing’ as they say these days.

But her cheap and my cheap could be completely different…

Gotta ask her a question to figure it out.

“You like travel?” I ask.

“Love it.”

“Where’s your uh, destination of choice?”

“Ummmm, I’m big on Europe. Me and the fam go like twice a year.”

“Cool, cool.”

Sixty-five dollars it is then.

But I don’t like this little character on the bottle. Looks like Jesus.

I don’t need to be thinking about Jesus when I’m drinking.

Hmmmmm… what’s a Grenache?

Is it like a Ganache? Chocolate Ganache? Maybe they’ll have Grenache on the menu… Did I just say Ganache or Grenache?

“You ladies need some help?” someone asks us.

Oh would you looky here. The beefy bottleshop dude. Sleezing up on my date. Calling me a lady. I may have a vagina but I’m no lady. I’m gonna champ him.

“No, all good champ.”

Aw, look at his face. Getting champed is bad at the best of times. Probably stings like hell when it’s from a ‘lady’.

“Ah actually do you have any merlot?” she asks him.

Oh god no. Was she Bi on her Bumble Profile? I thought she said she was one of us.

Is beefcake bottle-shop guy gonna swoop in here?

Am I allowed to be a lesbian if I lose her to the heteros? Oh I can just see it now: walking down the street minding my own business when the 'chief' confronts me out of nowhere. Did you lose that beautiful blonde girl to the beefy bottle-shop guy? She'll ask. No, I'll say. But they'll know I'm lying.

“Sure, ah just down this way,” beefcake is saying, and leading us like a leader.

Merlot... Why didn’t I just ask her what she liked?

Look at all these merlots. I bet you she’ll ask for a recommendation.

“Which do you recommend?” she asks.

See.

“Uh I don’t really drink merlot,” he replies.

Dumb answer ‘bro’, you aren’t gonna woo her with that chat.

Jeez. I wish I hadn’t started dating women so late.

Look at these two. They’re young, chatting away, perfect for each other.

I just had to waste all that time on men. All through my twenties and thirties, so many first dates, so many duds.

And of course men always got the wine. So now I have no friggin idea how to even choose one.

Why did it take me so long to figure it out… it’s just like these wines, can’t make a decision.

She’s probably still trying to figure it out.

Is it him or is it me she likes? Or both? What does her body tell her?

Always follow what your body says.

Otherwise you turn out like me. Forty, trying to relive it all again with women almost half my age.

Why am I doing this to myself? Am I going to be fifty, in this same bottle shop, regretting what I’m doing now?

I’m sure there are plenty of forty year old lesbians out there who would be perfect for me. You’re old now Louisa, leave the twenty-eight year olds to the twenty-eight year olds.

That should be a rule, you can only date people of the same age. So we all stop chasing our youth. Bet divorce rates would drop too, no one’s dumping their fifty year old wife for another fifty year old.

“What do you reckon?” she asks me.

Oh back to me now are we?

Shit. Merlot.

“Do any taste like chocolate?” I ask the ‘bro’.

She’s laughing, with me or at me? I need to be laughing for it to be ‘with’.

“Hahahaha,” I laugh.

“Let me ask my manager,” he says as he walks off.

Nice kabuse though, I’ll give him that.

“I think we should try this one,” she says holding up a bottle of merlot.

“Nice,” I say, but I can’t see it anywhere on the shelf; it’s probably the price of a flight to Europe.

Again with that cynicism. I wish they made a pill for a negative attitude.

“Just this thanks,” I say to the ‘bro’ at the counter.

“Nice choice,” he says, looking directly at her.

“Yeah she knows her stuff,” I say, “just like you, champ.”

Second hit with the champ, really doesn’t sting as much the second time.

Damn. Gotta be more original.

Specially when dating young people like this.

Huh, forty dollars for the wine, I wonder if she knew?

Brrrrrr! It’s so cold out here, thank god the restaurant is just round the corner.

“It’s such a lovely night,” I say, if I can’t make my brain positive, I’ll make my mouth be.

“Hey, thanks for letting me choose the wine,” she says, “not used to that, you know?”

Well, nice turn of events.

“I do actually. Once upon a time the world convinced me I was straight. Men love to pick the wine don’t they?”

“Yeah same here. Power move I reckon.”

“Wouldn’t put it past them.”

Here we are, Guigino's Italian Restaurant, show me what you got.

“Hello ladies,” the head waiter with the wispy moustache says.

I’m gonna have to start belching and farting in public to get rid of this ‘lady’ tag.

“Table for two, under Louisa,” I say.

“Right this way,” he leads, we follow.

The table’s nice. Quiet corner. Low light, I probably look good then.

“Is it weird if I say I’m having a lot of fun already?” she asks me as I pour the merlot into our glasses.

“Not in the slightest,” I reply.

“I hope the wine is ok, I’ve never had this one before.”

“Let’s see,” I say and raise my glass to hers, “Cheers.”

“To what?” she says, smiling.

“To... the right choices.”

We drink.

Menu looks good.

Oh look, chocolate ganache.