Red Between the Lines

The rain-darkened sky intensified the neon lights prancing across puddles on the pavement. The sizzling of the grandiose marquee was audible from the street. The man slipped the valet a note before surrendering his rumbling chariot to the valet’s keeping. He bounded between the murky voids seeking salvation under the restaurant’s awning. The door attendant looked the man over like a wet dog. The wet overcoat ruined his image temporarily, but he wouldn’t let it ruin the evening. Foreign food would do that.

Why had he agreed to Caves Lumineux? A mead hall would have fulfilled his desires - simple, filling fare and good beer. But a lady gets what a lady wants. And there she was.

The man’s alabaster maiden illuminated the palette of deep reds and dark wood tones incumbent to French bistros. He checked his sodden outer layer and hastened to her side. He pulled his date in close. A warmth emanated between them. He whispered a terse greeting before sweeping her along to the waiting host.

He took me by the wrist and held me hard! she swooned.

The man nodded to the owner standing at special attention next to the maitre’d. The man then nodded to the maitre’d, who jotted a note on his podium-bound table plan. A final nod to the garçon launched the procession forward.

And thrice his head thus waving up and down, she thought giddily about her date’s power and resourcefulness.

Once seated, a reprieve from the waitstaff left the young couple without chaperone. The man sought the stare of his doe-eyed maiden. He falls to such perusal of my face! His gaze sank greedily into the depths of her plunging neckline before frowning. His date’s dress mirrored the stark tablecloth garishly.

“Was white such a good choice?” he questioned.

“I do not know, my lord.”

“No, it’s just,” the man backtracked, “I had planned on red wine, so… Well, I mean, linen stains. Aren’t you concerned?’

“But truly I do fear it.”

The sommelier materialized as if furtively eavesdropping somewhere in the quiet dining room. He recited a well-memorized list of recommendations, ending with the house merlot.

“Myrrh Low?” the man repeated. He was sure the sommelier was trying to make him look stupid. The French liked to do that. “Low, as in, low in tannins, I suspect. Probably for the best, my dear; acids give me a jibby tummy. We’ll have to overlook the ostentatious advertisement scheme. I mean, really, water into wine!”

“What means your lordship?”

The sommelier retreated to Caves Lumineux’s wine cellar. The man peered over his menu at his date.

“Myrrh was a gift from the Magi, you surely must know.”

“No, my lord.”

The man raised a quizzical eyebrow. He knew she was sheltered, but the extent far outreached his imagination. He expounded for the poor girl, “It’s certainly not aberrant to reference wine as a divine drink. The Greeks did it before the Christians. Nectar of the Gods, they called it. I always think of nectar as something sweet, don’t you?”

“I think nothing, my lord.”

The man faltered. He had babbled too long. He was entitled to his opinions, he knew, but he could be overbearing at times. A consequence of station, he feared.

O, what a noble mind is o’erthrown here! the youthful woman dismayed. She yearned to recover the conversation, “How does your honour for this many a day?”

“Well,” the man hesitated before committing. “Well! Well, to be honest, I’m pleased we finally decided to do this. It’s been all the talk at home - ‘will they, won’t they’ - you know. I’m relieved to get this over with.”

The words tumbled out. The man heard them a microsecond too late. He closed his eyes and berated himself. The sommelier reappeared, bottle in hand, before the man could correct his position.

“Would it please Monsieur to inspect?” The sommelier rested the bottle, label up, on his napkin-draped arm. The man rolled his eyes. What could he ascertain about the grape juice from its artistic presentation? He looked anyway; anywhere away from the crushed look on his date’s face was an improvement.

The embossed label was illustrated lavishly. A girl, an ingenue, swathed in a bolt of mother of pearl colored cloth. The damsel distressing dangled from an outstretched, gnarled bough over a purplish current. She appeared on the verge of relinquishing herself to the depths of oblivion. The scrawling parchment script read “Oenophilia’s Fall - Drown the Sorrow, Imbibe the Life”.

“Something rotten in the state of this mark,” the man murmured. He bade the sommelier to get on with it.

“You are keen, my lord, you are keen.”

The man shot a glance at his date. Her smile suggested all was forgiven. The sommelier finished pouring and fled again.

“You are merry, my lord.”

“I’ve made a fool of myself, yet you show me grace.”

“Pray, let’s have no words of this.”

“Fine by me,” he floundered. “You know, we should be frank, you and I”—he shuttled his hands between them—”and how did it go? 'Brevity is the soul of wit' and so forth. Well, I’m at wit’s end. Tell me shortly of your soul’s desires.”

“To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day,” she spoke softly. A tremor quaked in her voice.

“Is it?” the man blustered. He whipped his head around on a swivel. “That explains the macabreness of the restaurant tonight. I was starting to think we’d be suffering from a bout of food poisoning by midnight. Sorry. I suppose you want—“

“To be your Valentine!” she burst. Her cheeks flushed lustily.

“Oh God!” the man slackened his tie. “That’s such a relief! I thought you were vying for another marriage proposal. Of course, you are of high nubility - ha! get it? I mean, a bit inexperienced. I’m sure you know something about, well… there’s a learning curve to it anyway.”

The man snatched his wine glass from the table and slaked his nervousness. A dribble landed on his white suit shirt. He dabbed at it furiously, splotching the red more extensively around his shirt. He swore quietly under his breath.

That unmatched form and feature of youth blasted with ecstasy, she spurned at the sight.

The man tried to form a facial expression that exuded a confident “didn’t I tell you” message. The young woman perceived a meek simper.

“Furthermore, I admit I’m a bit clingy, needy really, and I think you’d lack the energy to show me the affection I demand, while staying close to your brother and father. So, probably the Valentine’s day plan is much better. Simpler, don’t you think?”

“By Cock, they are to blame!” she shrieked. “My brother shall know of it!”

“Good God, keep your voice down,” the man shushed his date.”And don’t go ruining my friendship with your brother just because your relationship is lurid! Besides, he’s due back soon, and I think he’ll find it romping good fun to hear about our dinner in a French restaurant. The irony, right?”

The sudden appearance of a messenger severed the conversation. The young woman assumed a coy silence. The man, listening intently to the messenger’s low voice, rose and excused himself. The restaurant messenger boy led the man into a side booth with a privacy curtain. The man leaned on the telephone shelf as he placed the receiver near his face.

“Yo, Rick!” the man greeted companionably. A deathly hollow returned. The man bent an ear to hear beyond the whisper of white noise. “A fellow of infinite jest! Prank calling me on my date, of course.” He waited for a snicker or huff of breath. “One of your gambols... isn’t it?” Nothing.

What madness, the man shrugged and returned to his dinner date.

He arrived at a food-encumbered table, “Oh, you...ordered for me.”

He reseated himself and shoved a cloth napkin into his collar. No more spills tonight. He attempted an air of pleasantness and smiled at his date, “So, what are we eating then?”

“There’s rosemary.” Her head drooped, eye contact depleted.

“A fine aromatic.”

“There’s fennel for you.”

“No kissing me tonight then.” An attempted assuagement.

“There’s rue for you, and here’s some for me,” the young woman stabbed at the various plates with a fork.

“Roux? Not very filling. I hope this is just the appetizer,” the man quibbled. “I guess that’s why the French call them 'horse derves'; a lot of toiling that grazing thing.”

“Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.” Venom coated her voice.

The tone caught the man mid-bite; he chomped down on his fork. He winced at the pommeling of metal on enamel. How rich, indeed! Did the oddly mercurial girl deign assume they wouldn’t go dutch? Just like a woman when a date soured. The man divined a superfluous apology to allay her.

“I should have brought flowers,” he stated. “What were your favorites? Pansies? Daisies? Herbs of grace? Whatever those are.”

I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all...

“I do not know, my lord, what I should think,” she choked. “My lord, I have remembrances of yours.”

The man jerked the napkin from his collar and threw it on the table. He had lost his appetite. “Roz and Gilly warned me; they said, I shouldn’t try to play the ‘nice guy’, that you’d misread my any attempt at short-term dating. As if I’ve led you on!”

“You promis’d me to wed...” A tear sparkled as it crawled down her alabaster cheek.

“I said,” the man corrected sternly, “you were marriage material.”

“You promis’d me to wed!”

“What a ridiculously conservative notion!” the man rasped. “You come draped in white like the holy Madonna but with the cleavage of...of“—he stammered —”of a celebrity sex symbol! I thought we could just have a bit of fun before I go marry myself off to a more, well you know, noble bride!”

“Here stooping for your clemency,” she spat, “for us.”

The caustic bow oozed sarcasm. And I a maid at your window. The man gulped as her bosom blossomed.

“It’s the age of the libertine. You’re dressed for the part, why don’t you start acting the part?”

She gasped, “Thou hadst not come to my bed!”

“Not for a want of trying!”

“Without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t.”

“And stick me with the dinner bill,” he shook his head. “Why did I bother? Just get me to a nunnery!”

She sprang to her feet, “T’have seen what I have seen, see what I see. Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh… You are naught!”

The man saw red. The blurred image of his date fleeing the table sharpened once he wiped the weaponized wine from his face. The young woman had rushed away. A tuxedoed garçon interdicted upon her exit.

“Come, my coach!” she barked at the waiter. From across the dining room she shouted, “Goodnight. Goodnight.”

O, heavenly powers, restore him, the young woman wept softly into the rain.

The man called for an invoice and made his mark. Cash was for plebes. He slapped the cork back into the half-spent merlot and throttled its bottleneck. As he pulled on his damp overcoat, his chariot roared to a halt in front of Caves Lumineux’s front awning. His valet held open the door.

“Ah, Horatio, you got the dry cleaning,” the man caught sight of the glossy reflection of plastic across the backseat of the car. “I’ve been in need of a change of shirt.

“Yes, my Lord Hamlet.”

The rear door shut behind the man. The valet-cum-chauffeur took the wheel and slipped the vehicle back into traffic. As he switched close the privacy glass between himself and his master, a drowsy, timid singing languished in the rear seat.

“Hey non nony, nony, hey non.” The cork popped.

Disclaimer: To appease the plagiarism gods, all of the young woman’s dialogue and thoughts are direct quotes from Shakespeare’s Hamlet.