Red Wine and Risotto

It’s the little things that matter, you know? That’s why they stick out sometimes: they’re small, but they let you know they’re there in a big way. I’d been out of the ‘game’ for so long… It’s easy to forget. I hadn’t been on a first date in over 4 years. I’d built this up in my mind so much that nothing could be small. This was huge, and it was crushing me. But, it had finally gotten to the point where the thing that scared me more than anything else was NOT doing it. So, I went all in.

No pictures. No names. No addresses. I got a burner phone and downloaded every app I could find- from friend finders, to true love matchers, to… less romantic options. I live in a big city and I travel so, I thought my options and opportunities we’re as good as could be expected. I was going to find the one. My One. But I was mortified to think I’d find someone I knew first. Or worse, someone I knew would find me. I don’t feel safe putting it all out there on the internet for just anyone. I wanted to find the spark first, then I could invite them in. Real and in person.

As you probably expected, my results were not great. Non existent in fact. My methods were too cagey, my approach too distant. Others were trading— or in most cases supplying unsolicited— crotch shots, and I wasn’t ready to show my face. Furthermore, the ambiguity of my profiles left the door open to any and all genders and interests. My DM’s became an experience of ever increasing risk that I was less and less willing to take. This wasn’t working for me and I certainly wasn’t working for anyone else. I had to do something different.

I’ve got a secret spot in my home city. A small dinner restaurant that’s all my own. I’ve never told anyone about it, or invited anyone out. It’s not fancy, but has nice drink menu, nothing to write reviews about. Most people would say: ‘it’s not that good’ and move on. But I discovered something there, that for me, is irreplaceable. They make my grandmother’s risotto. It’s the little things you know? It’s not even good risotto, it’s too clumpy and the flavours are dull. But no meal could FEEL it’s equal. I order it every time.

I scrapped the socials and went old school: I took out an ad in the personal column. I even ditched the phone. I don’t remember what I was thinking or what I wrote. I remember I tried to avoid cliches so someone might take me seriously. I really do love romance, so I reached through the pages to ignite that spark in someone. My someone. I do remember how I finished it though. ‘If any of this emotion reaches you, I’ll be waiting for you, Thursday at 7 pm in Connolly’s on 5th. Just say you have a reservation.’

I told the paper to run the ad every Sunday until I sent a stop. And I spoke to Connolly’s, they don’t take reservations but they know me and they’re never busy. Like I said, it’s not that popular of a place. They rolled with it, table in the front by the window, no questions. Sometimes I do notice the little things. It wasn’t hard for me to work either. I wasn’t particularly wanted or expected anywhere else. Every Thursday I’d get there early and set down in the shady part deep in the back. And when 8 o’clock rolled around, I’d have some of grandma’s risotto and head home. Was it working? At least as well as whatever I was doing with that phone. Better, I wasn’t scared or judging myself. I was more comfortable. I guess I felt in control, and that helped me release resistance.

It was nearly 3 months before anyone showed up. Ten weeks of increasingly degrading inner monologues galvanized in two heartbeats. I knew her smile. I knew her face. My wife. She spoke to the bartender briefly before shyly sitting in the window seat. The next two heartbeats were both the longest and most painful of my life. In that briefest of pauses I considered every decision and failure that had occurred up to this moment. I felt the deepest agonizing shame I’ve ever heard described in life or fiction and I’m not afraid to say the most I could ever survive. An eternity in two heartbeats. But then, two more.

It’s the little things you know? Because after a lifetime of waiting and shame those next two heartbeats still came. And with them came all the little things. Her hair, her smell, her smoky voice and the way it tinkles like wind chimes when she laughs. Her drive and dedication. Her support. How did I make these things so small? How could I forget? Everything I was searching for, everything I ever wanted or needed, was just an amalgamation of all the little things, and was just across the bar.

It took no time to decide, there was no decision, just experience and action, but I’ll never forget the years I spent in those thoughts and feelings. I crossed the bar dedicated to the little things. I ordered a bottle of our favorite Merlot, the one we had at our wedding. I introduced myself and we laughed. In that moment I felt more secure in my future than ever before in my life. We sipped that wine in that dingy bar like connoisseurs in a grand palace. And we talked about the little things. She was so nervous about this whole thing she had already ordered. We lost ourselves again in the love we’d been unintentionally avoiding. At some point the server brought out her food. It was the risotto.