Swirl of Black Cherry With a Hint of Desire

It’s far more acceptable in today’s society to be a gay man than a gay woman and more acceptable to be a gay woman than what I am. Some may say that I have escaped by virtue of my marriage to a man. Some may say that I am deluding myself.

To them, I say that I bear a guilt that I do not suffer in the same way that other gay women do; and also a fear that I am repressing half of who I am. But love doesn’t care about all that. My love only cares about this man. And because he loves me, we have an arrangement. There are things I need that he cannot give me. By the same token, there are things he needs that I cannot give him.

We cannot be all things to the people we love no matter how deep and abiding that love may be. Does true love ask for sacrifice? Is true love all about compromise?

We say no. True love is about mutual decision. The commitment we make to each other is the life we’re building together. Our mutual life goals and the family we may or may not build. That, too, is a mutual decision- one we haven’t made yet, but when we do- that one, we will only do together.

Not that there’s any chance of that tonight.

I look down at the picture on my phone. The dating app my best friend created to help people like me. Well, not exactly people like me, per say, but married people in open relationships such as mine. Trust me when I say that the ‘open’ part of that statement isn’t always obvious, and doesn’t always go without saying.

The last app I’d used for my purpose tonight was with a respectable-looking lawyer-type, power suit and all. She was handsome and married, two traits that I’d been very clear about in my profile. I’m not looking for someone who’s looking for ‘the one’; I’m just out looking for a little bit of fun. Ugh, that rhymed.

Anyway, she wasn’t wearing her wedding band when I’d met her at the little Italian restaurant we’d agreed on. That should have been my first clue that this was not going to go well. (Well, no, that was the second clue. The first was that she insisted on going out to dinner first.) Long story short, her husband showed up in the middle of dinner and accused me of being a homewrecker and I left a perfectly good glass of wine on the table. It was a shiraz. That was the third clue, the woman insisted on that bottle, and I fucking hate shiraz.

I study the photo of the woman who’s going to meet me tonight. She’s pretty in an understated sort of way. Her brown eyes, which have flecks of green in them, are friendly and her auburn hair isn’t perfectly styled as some of the others I’ve swiped left on. Her nose is just this side of too long, but her smile makes up for it. Maybe she’s not traditionally beautiful, but neither am I.

I check my Uber app to see how much time I have before it gets here. Five minutes. Just enough time. The woman staring back at me in the mirror isn’t as young as I feel and I regret my penchant for sunbathing. Thank God for concealer and $50 foundation. I put the finishing touches on my ‘mask’ as Dorian, my husband, calls it, and head to the front door.

Dorian is pulling on his overcoat and smiles at me when he sees me. He looks dashing in his tailored suit and just for one moment, I’m a little jealous of the man he’s going to see tonight. I squash that feeling down with my stilettoed heel.

“You look beautiful, tonight,” Dorian compliments me, taking in the black cherry, long-sleeved bodycon, I’m wearing. He toys with the ruching of the neckline, appreciation in his gaze.

“You’re not so bad yourself. I doubt you’ll even finish your drinks before he’s all over you.” He laughs and kisses me before pulling away to button up his coat. “Have fun. Be safe.” I swat him on the ass as he opens the front door. He flashes me a devilish smile as he covers his face with an actual mask before he gets into his Lyft. He swears it’s better than Uber, but I disagree.

Speaking of which, here it is, pulling up as his pulls away. I put on my coat and my own mask, lock the door behind me and climb into the small hatchback where I am greeted with smiling eyes over a funky printed mask and a bottle of water from the twenty-something driver. He eyes me appreciatively, but not creepily. I take the water, thanking him and we’re on our way.

We pull up to the restaurant where I’m meeting my date and I spot her standing by the entrance, waiting for me. Polite, but unnecessary- it’s freezing outside.

“Andrea?” She asks when she sees me. It’s always a little difficult when meeting someone new and you can’t see half their face.

“Sheena?” Her cheeks lift in a smile and I return the expression. It’s so much more difficult to emote with these damn things on. I notice that she’s got her wedding band on. Check.

Inside, the restaurant is dim, candlelit. I had never been here when I agreed to this place and had no idea it would be so… romantic. Fan-fucking-tastic. Not exactly what I’d been hoping for. Panic starts to rise from the base of my spine. So much for a casual hookup.

You can imagine my relief when Sheena waves off the hostess, indicating we’re heading to the bar. She notices my demeanor and chuckles, shaking her head. Good, a sense of humor.

I take in the polished mahogany of what seems to be a restored 19th century bar. There’s stained glass inlaid in the cabinetry and a certain sheen to the mirror behind the liquor that adds to the old-timey quality. It’s been expertly refinished, and I almost expect to see a man dressed like Poe from that show Dorian and I have been watching, Altered Carbon, polishing a glass. Of course, even if he were, the effect would be ruined by the fabric across his face.

Being a Monday, the place is pretty deserted except for a couple of guys on the other end who are ordering drafts. Fine by me; these days, you never can be too careful. Even with six-foot social distancing restrictions in most places, I’d prefer to avoid crowds. Plus, at least I won’t have to scream to be heard, and I need to have a conversation before jumping to dessert.

Some people skip the get-to-know-you part of these things, but I’m not a visual creature. Scratch that, I am, but when it comes to women, I need a little something more. I need a little connection, but not too much. Dangerous territory, that. It’s a delicate line I walk to fulfill my needs.

I watch with satisfaction, the way her eyes travel over my body as I take off the long overcoat. My dress covers everything without hiding anything at all. I shiver at the desire I see in her eyes. As I take my seat, I take note of her choice of dress. Whereas mine hugs me like a second skin, hers is flowy, yet flirty, with a black lacy overlay that extends down her slender arms, exposing her tawny beige skin. The knee-length skirt shows off her shapely legs as she crosses them.

I notice a little cardstock tent advertising that the wine is half-price on Mondays. I pick it up to check the fine print, not just bottles, but glasses, too. So far, we’re two for two on my perfect date checklist, let’s see how number three pans out.

Sheena nods her head toward it. “Care for a glass?”

I shrug. “Sure. You choose this place for this?” I wave the little card in her direction. My tone is nonchalant, but this is part of my test.

“That’s why I chose Monday. But really, the food is good and they have a decent selection of wine. What would you like?”

I pick up the wine list sitting next to a silver metal basket of cocktail napkins and hand it to her. “Surprise me, I need to use the restroom.” She frowns at my poor form, but I really do mean to be surprised.

When I get back from the restroom, there are two glasses sitting on the bar. “Sorry about that.” She’s removed her mask so I can see her brilliant smile as she accepts my apology. “So, what did we get?” I inquire as I sit and remove my own mask.

“You said to surprise you. I think you should guess,” she teases me. I like her playfulness.

I lift my glass and swirl it, watching the dark rubyish-slash-purplish liquid swish around. My gaze, though on the wine, is split with the woman in front of me. My eyes shift to her long legs, which she uncrosses and crosses the opposite way. I sort of like the way she’s unsettled by my attention. The effect is mutual.

I return my focus to the wine, lifting it to the light, swirling ‘round again. “Great legs,” I say, watching the way the liquid clings to the glass. She laughs and blushes, obviously getting the double entendre I’d intended.

I bring the glass back to my nose, the fruity notes of cherry, raspberry, and blackberry, toasty vanilla and cocoa filling my nostrils. I take a sip. With just the right amount of sweetness balancing out its tart, the slightly earthy, smooth flavor dances on my tongue.

I close my eyes and savor it. “Mmm.” I set my glass of Merlot on the bar.

“So? What is it?” Her eyes dance with mirth. She’s read my bio and obviously knows I’m a self-proclaimed cork dork. I like her more already.

A slow grin spreads across my face. “Merlot. Napa Valley, 2017.”

“Damn. You’re good. Bonus points if you can tell me the winery.” I lean forward and whisper into her ear. “Now you’re just cheating. You saw the wine list.” She’s trying to sound incredulous but her laugh gives her away.

I sit back and make an ‘x’ on my chest, “Cross my heart, I didn’t even look before handing it to you.”

“Ok smarty-pants, what’s in my glass?” Given that I do, in fact, intend to be intimately acquainted with her mouth tonight, I have no qualms performing the feat with her drink. We’ve exchanged proof of negative tests with one another over the dating app, so I’m not worried. Yet another reason why I’ll never use another dating app.

Being suitably impressed with my accurate identification, she lifts her glass in a toast. “To good nights and bad decisions,” she offers.

“I like the sound of that.” I clink my glass to hers and take a sip.