Raindrops on The Window and a Glass of Merlot

The soft pattering of the rain against the windows of this dilapidated bar mimics the beating of my nervous heart.

How did I end up here?

This is the first time I have stepped foot in a place like this since my twenties and right now, I can see why. The dim lighting, the sour faced bartender, and the fisherman that smell like the sea, are anything but appealing. As I make my way to the tall seat closest to the exit, I contemplate what drew me here to begin with.

Before my divorce, my husband would never go into a place like this. His interests were in high rise cocktail lounges and private stocks of whiskey. Now, that I am alone in this world, I decided to do the one thing my ex-husband would have never let me do. I came in here and ordered a glass of Merlot.

I learn quickly that ordering a glass of Merlot in a place like this does not go unnoticed. The long-bearded fisherman still wearing their overalls notice immediately and by their not-so-secret glances, I can tell they are not impressed. The bartender’s raised eyebrows are another indicator.

“I’ll have to go dig around in the back,” he says as he shrugs and sighs. Apparently, I am a pain in the ass. Something that I have grown accustomed.

“It’s okay, I can have something different.”

After a gruff or two, Mr. Sour heads through a door that creaks as it swings open. I am so embarrassed now.

“Merlot, eh? That’s unusual.” I turn to my left to see one of the fishermen standing near me. He is younger and taller than the others and with a thick black beard and muscles pushing through his long-sleeved shirt, his good looks also set him apart. However, the last thing I need at this point in my life is a scruffy fisherman.

“Everything about this is unusual for me.”

“Can I have a seat by ya? I’ll buy?”

“No, I would rather be alone. Thank you though, that’s a kind offer.”

“No problem, let me know if you change your mind.”

The sexy fisherman turns and walks back to a corner booth and, to my surprise, sits alone.

The sour bartender comes back through the door, swinging it open abruptly. “Here ya go. I found one bottle in the back and it looks old as dirt. Not sure it’s going to taste any good miss.”

“It’s okay, I’ll try it,” I say this as I prepare myself for the worst glass of Merlot in my life.

He pours the wine slowly and deliberately into what, I suspect, is the only wine glass in the establishment. For a sour faced bartender, he surprises me with his gentleness, making me question if he is really even sour at all.

When he sets the glass in front of me, I take a deep breath. I do not want to disappoint him since he went to so much trouble so I must put on a performance of enjoyment. I lift the glass to my lips and the rich black cherry flavor hits my tongue just right as the chocolatey finish coats my mouth in a pleasing softness.

I have misjudged again.

The fisherman return to their muffled conversation, the bartender to his chores, the attractive loner to his pint of beer, leaving me to my wine and my thoughts.

I may have believed this bar to be unpleasant upon first appearances, but now as I ruminate over the delicious wine, I notice for the first time the pictures of fish hanging on the walls, held up for display by smiling men and women. I notice every old glass bottle that has been carefully saved and put on display, each of them empty of liquid, but filled with memories. I notice every scratch on the chairs and across the bar, all created by someone spending fleeting moments of time in this very place.

It dawns on me that the beauty is in the imperfections and the magic is in the stories they tell. As I consider this, I glimpse over towards the lonely fisherman in the corner booth. I stand up, pick up my glass, and walk over to join him.