Regret for abandoned Merlot

If I'd known it was going to be my last day on Earth, I would never have wasted that perfect second glass of plummy, velvety Merlot by walking out on my date.

But it was unavoidable. I just couldn't stand it a moment longer, sitting there and listening to his boring stories about himself. I needed air, I needed a cigarette (even though I'd quit 15 years ago), I needed to escape.

What was I thinking even accepting Kirk's invitation to dinner in the first place? I had worked with him for years and knew full well what a windbag he was. I guess he just caught me at a weak moment. I was an idiot.

Covid restrictions meant I was trapped in the city so my plan to fly to the opposite coast to see my family had fallen through. I was at a loose end, he sensed it and for the 10,000th time asked me out.

Approaching 40 and with one failed marriage behind me, the dating game was one I mostly avoided, enjoying instead my own quiet life writing, reading, painting, gardening and flower arranging.

My weekly meditation class was a godsend for giving me a break from my own mind for an hour or two. Chanting mantras to music had become a wonderful pressure release for me.

Anyway, back to Kirk. The look on his face as I rose to leave had been one of stunned confusion. "Have I said something wrong?" he sputtered as I grappled with my coat and pushed my chair in.

"No, nothing like that, I just need some air. I'm sorry, I'm just not feeling well," I lied.

Even at the height of an anxiety attack, I was still trying not to hurt anyone's feelings, even a notorious, self-centered bore like Kirk.

Weirdly though, the thing that annoyed me most about walking out was leaving that second glass of untouched Merlot. The first one has been so smooth, sensual even, and I had savored every drop.

I had looked forward to the refill by the attentive Spanish waiter but before I could raise it to my lips, my palms had become sweaty and my heart had started racing and all I could think about was running away.

Out in the street I marched around a corner and leant briefly against a wall, my heart still pounding and my poor, overloaded and overwhelmed head spinning.

I scanned the neon strip for a taxi then a bus then decided it was easier to walk home. My inner-city townhouse was only a few blocks away and maybe I could walk off a little of my anxiety before I got home, to safety, to my flower-filled sanctuary.

There, I could take my meds, light some incense, switch on the fairy lights around my windows and lay down on my comfy, antique wrought iron bed.

I would breathe in deeply than say a mantra "Aum Hari Aum" slowly on the exhale until I began to feel calm again. I would stare at the paintings and prints on my walls and my pink and white Persian rug and the glowing polished wooden floor beneath it.

I'd appreciate the vases of multi-coloured poppies I had grown myself. I'd go to my "happy place", walking along the pristine white sands of Main Beach at Byron Bay on a winter's day, gazing out at the blue-grey ocean with the seagulls hovering and gliding soundlessly beside me like Nature's entourage.

Yes, I had it all figured out as I walked and walked and walked. My feet ached from the heels I had foolishly chanced for the date so I slipped them off and walked barefoot for the last 600 yards or so I thought.

A sudden pain shot up my leg and squinting down through the darkness, I saw the blood pooling from beneath my right foot. "Ow, ow, ow, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck," I'd hissed to myself as I hopped on one foot and removed a small shard of glass from my sole.

Then the blood really started to gush. It's going to need a stitch, I thought. I hobbled to a park bench and rummaged in my bag for my wipes and something to stem the flow.

I found a packet of tissues which I fashioned into a bandage then slipped my shoes back on. Not far to go then I could properly dress the wound and elevate my leg, I thought.

Finally, I was across the road from my little sanctuary. I could see the glow of the lamps through the lace curtains in the windows and, despite my wound, couldn't help admiring the pretty little English garden I had cultivated at the front of my house.

The perfume of the Wisteria climbing the stone walls carried through the night air to me and the meter-high foxgloves lining my garden path seem to beckon me over.

The rambling rose entwining the wall to the front and side seemed to have sprouted more heavy blossoms in just the short time I had been away.

I was pleased with the way the poppies were tumbling out on to the sidewalk but noticed the thatch of sunflowers to the left of the path needed pruning. Oh well, I'd get to that tomorrow I mused.

But there would be no tomorrow because I was struck by a speeding driver as I stepped into the road. He was going too fast and had forgotten to switch his headlights on.

I was dressed in all-black and was so focused on my aching foot now squelching in my shoe and my racing heart that I didn't look right, then left, then right again.

I bolted into the road and he ran right over me. That was my last night alive.

So how am I able to tell you this story? Easy, it's because it's just that... a story. I'm making it up while I'm enjoying this amazing second glass of Merlot.

Kirk is still talking but I checked out a while ago. That's what I do when someone is droning on. I've mastered the art of still appearing interested while retreating into my own thoughts.

You didn't really think I would really abandon my soft-as-butter, full-bodied glass of magical Merlot did you?