The Perfect Date

I hate it when my friends take advantage of me when I’m drunk. I don’t know why I agreed to go on this date when they didn’t tell me anything about her. I must’ve been desperate. Although, it didn’t feel that way. Now I was led by some stranger who knew my name, and I had to hold on to his shoulders as he led me to my doom, since my friends blindfolded me on the car ride here and told me to keep it on.

“Here’s your seat.” A man's voice said. “I’ll be back in a few moments. Raise your hand if you need to use the restroom or need anything.”

“Hey, Harry right?” It’s Lux.”

It was an angelic voice of pure innocence that struck the chords of my ears and produced a melody I thought only angels could sing in the heavens. My mind's canvas was instantly primed with a pastel yellow.

“Hey! Nice to finally know your name. They didn’t tell me your name. I can’t recall a time I’ve ever met anyone like this.” I said.

She laughed. “My friends just told me before I got here. Don’t worry. I haven’t either. So how did you end up in this situation?”

“Ah, we have mutual friends. My friends somehow convinced me when I was drunk. How about you?” I said.

“Oh. I willingly accepted.” She laughed. “I’d rather not use dating apps and I trust my friends.”

“I wish I had friends like yours. I’m starting to think this is a prank. You’re blindfolded too, right? Is it just me looking stupid?”

“Fortunately, everyone is looking stupid.” She laughed.

Our conversation was interrupted by an older woman’s voice. She explained the events of the night. That the meals and drinks are kept secret until the end so that we may have fun guessing the mysterious foods and beverages. That there are four courses and unlimited wine. I’m not much of a wine drinker but infinite wine suits me.

Our waiter poured us a drink but didn’t reveal the name. We carefully picked up our glasses of the semi-mysterious substance and clinked our glasses in our shared darkness. It was slightly chilled and I took a sniff then a sip. There was subtle scent and flavor, but all I knew was that it was white wine.

“What do you think it is?” I asked.

“Pinot Grigio. But I don’t know the date or the place it’s from.” She said.

“The type is more than enough for me. I’m not much of a wine drinker, but I can appreciate it.”

The waiter came over to serve the first course and I heard a few plates being laid on the table. Next, I heard our glasses being replenished, which made me smile. I didn’t even have to ask. I carefully went searching for the food and I briefly touched the softest thing I’ve ever felt — her hand. It reminded me of my dad when he would always say, “as soft as a baby's butt.” I started wondering how soft her butt must be but quickly realized my perverted thoughts and changed course. I was now curious about the softness of her face, and I started sketching her face in my mind already knowing the hue of her unblemished skin — like the clouds during a sunrise. Then I picked up what felt like bread, but I wasn’t attentive to the food.

“I think we touched hands for a second, and I gotta say, they’re really soft.” I said.

She laughed. “Thanks. You’d say the opposite if you touched my fingers.”

“Ok, so you do some manual labor or you play a string instrument.” I said.

“Actually, I’m a writer.”

“Oh. I guess you need to replace your keyboards and pens quite often.”

She laughed. “I write for a living, but playing the violin is my passion.”

Comfort overcame my anxiety. Someone I can relate to. Someone who expresses themselves without words. She’s an artist. She has a beautiful voice. She has the softest skin. I barely know her and I haven’t even seen her, but she’s perfect. I started painting her hair blonde to match the golden light of the heavens.

“That’s amazing! Playing the violin is your passion! You’re an artist! That’s something I can relate to.” I said.

“What do you do?” She asked.

“I paint for a living and painting is my passion.”

“Well it seems this night just got better. I don’t know many men that are painters, and I appreciate painting. Most guys I know are in the tech field. To be honest, I’m not fond of the ones I know. They talk like robots.”

“Well it seems the night got even better! I agree with everything you just said!” I said very loudly.

We both laughed and drank more wine. I barely ate during the first course. How could I possibly stomach four courses and unlimited wine? I’m not accustomed to fanciful living. I’m an artist, but my preference for alcohol is beer. I had to pace myself. She knew the first course and told me it was an Antipasti platter. Crusty Italian bread, provolone and parmigiano-reggiano cheese, salty prosciutto, sweet cherry tomatoes, and sardines. She seemed to have the knowledge and wisdom of Athena and the beauty of Aphrodite. She needed blueish-grey eyes like Athena. Her perfection made painting her portrait difficult. Painting without seeing amplified it.

I heard the clinking of dishes, glasses, and silverware as the waiter cleared our table. He then gave us new glasses with an unknown wine. We clinked our glasses and I sniffed and then sipped. It was chilled and sparkling.

“Prosecco!” I said.

“You’re right!” She said.

“Yeah that one was easy. Although, I can’t tell you the date or the place.”

She laughed. “The type is more than enough for me.”

“Cheers to that!” I said and finished my wine. “So you’re cultured in music and the culinary arts. You’re a wine connoisseur. You write for a living. You appreciate painting. Sounds like you're some sort of Renaissance woman.” I’ve always wished to grow up in a proper family. It was nice being around a woman that’s cultured. She’s perfect.

She laughed. “Thank you. I started playing the violin when I was five and fell in love with it. I’m not that cultured in the culinary arts, but I do know many Italian cuisines because of my mother. This four course meal is fortunately Italian, and it’s making me sound smarter than I am. And of course I appreciate painting! Yes, I write for a living but it’s not ideal.”

“What do you write about?” I asked.

“I write for some online magazine, and I have to write about topics they want which ironically is tech.”

“Eeek. I’m sorry to hear that. Let’s avoid that conversation and let’s drink to Art!”

I was feeling more than tipsy at this point. I swore I finished my glass recently, but it was refilled. I didn’t hear the waiter come to renew my spirits. He also laid down round two of four.

I’d been spellbound by Lux’s enchanting voice and the beautiful portrait she created in my mind that I’ve become unaware of any other noise. I’d never been so amazed at something I couldn’t see. I’m a fucking artist! A painter! I’ve always painted what I saw. I always needed light. Her voice was my guiding light, like a Siren guiding me safely to shore out of the unknown. Painting her perfect portrait now became simple. Painting was never simple for me even with light.

We apparently had a Caprese salad. Half-inch cuts of mozzarella cheese and heirloom tomatoes layered with fresh basil and drizzled with the finest balsamic vinegar and olive oil. I just listened to the sweet melody she sang as she described our meal and her words were tastier than the food.

The waiter did his cleaning ritual and served us a new glass of wine. We clinked, smelled, and sipped.

“Do you want to take a guess?” She said.

“It’s a red wine.” I laughed.

“Yes… and…”

“Uhhh… Merlot!”

“Yes!”

“For someone that doesn’t drink wine, I think I deserve a prize.” I said.

“You will get a prize.” She said alluringly.

“Oh yeah? What is it??” I said eagerly.

“More wine!” She broke out in laughter for a long time and I couldn’t help but join in. Our shared laughter completed the portrait of her. I could now see her clearly as if the blindfolds were gone. She was beautiful.

“You know we never talked about your art work. I feel like I’ve been talking this whole time.” She said.

“I’m having a great time listening to you talk so it's fine. But, to give you an idea, I consider myself a neoclassical painter and I praise William Bouguereau. I’m nowhere near his level but hopefully someday I’ll be able to make art at that level.”

“I’d love to see your paintings! You must be a great painter if that’s your style.” She said.

“Thanks. It’s my style but I still need years of practice.”

“Well I believe in you. Do you paint other things? Different styles?”

“Not really. I’m a true believer of the Neoclassical movement and don’t really see the need to try different styles of painting.” I said with confidence.

“Oh really… So what do you think about Impressionism or Modern art in general?”

I laughed then finished my cup of Merlot. “That’s not art.” The waiter came and laid out the main course and refilled my glass.

“What do you mean that’s not art?”

“I mean it’s not art. It’s a bunch of people making cheap paintings that children can make. They have no respect for the technical skills or rules that make great art.” I said.

“Wow, that’s kind of harsh.” She said.

“You disagree?”

“Well, yeah I disagree and I’m a little offended.”

I was drunk on wine, and maybe I was being harsh with my tone, but I still said the truth. I was a little annoyed that she didn’t understand my point. It seemed so basic. Her portrait in my mind was losing its perfect quality.

“I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just what I believe.” I said.

“Art isn’t only about the technical skills. It’s not about the rules. It’s great if you have skill and follow rules, and everyone should always practice, but it’s more than that. It’s about human expression and there are many different ways to do it.”

“That’s true and some ways are better than others.” I said.

“You sound like an elitist.”

“Well we need some rules to govern what we do.”

“Not all the time. That’s why there are different ways to make art. There are new rules, new ways. A new medium, a new genre, a new perspective, a new instrument, a new form. You can do anything and everyone does things differently because we’re all unique and express ourselves differently. Different genetics and different families and different expressions, and that’s the beauty of Art. It doesn’t have to be a perfect painting where you can’t see the brush strokes. That’s only one way of infinite possibilities. The beauty of art is in imperfect people finding ways to express and communicate their experiences. That’s why all art is perfect. Our imperfection is perfection.”

I was quiet and deep in thought. It was an explanation I’ve never heard before or maybe never paid attention to, since I thought I already understood true Art. She changed the conversation back to the food probably to lighten the mood. I couldn’t remember much of what she said.

We got our desserts next and she also talked about it but I was still thinking about our conversation on Art. Now the dinner was over and we got to take our blindfolds off.

I said, “You’re not what I imagined.”