There Is Truth in Wine

The Merlot is tart, a tang on my tongue, as I sit and wait for the cinema's latest showing to begin. The plush recliner of a seat nearly envelops me because I'm so tiny, and even my high-heeled feet barely touch the floor. I'm sure I look like a right sight in this dinner theater as people still shuffle in before the previews start.

"Olivia?"

My head jerks and I nearly spill my glass of wine as the man approaches, looking just like he stepped right out of one of his pictures from the dating app. As I take in the just-so stubble along his square jaw and the way the black jeans he's wearing seem to make his legs go on for miles, suddenly I feel hot and self-conscious.

"Randy," I say, and a smile brightens his face. I'm nearly overcome with the urge to play at being French so I can greet him with kisses on both cheeks just to have an excuse to inch as close as I can to see if he smells as good as he looks.

Instead, we exchange a handshake that makes us both awkward, all thumbs, even as we try not to laugh at ourselves.

Even without Randy saying a word, I can tell he's just the kind of man who doesn't take himself so seriously. I had grown bored of the tech gurus who acted like they knew so much and the "small business owners" who used their cannabis dispensary certifications as an excuse to get high all the time. Not that I was any better—I was wasting my psychology degree by waitressing tables at the family pizzeria. I really only knew how to dress like a professional when it came to dates like these.

After Randy sits down in the chair beside me, he looks meaningfully at my glass of wine. "Please tell me you ordered two of those," he says, voice teasing, and I open my mouth to let out a quip until the waitress who took my order comes by again.

"I'll have what she ordered," Randy says, sliding a wink my way. A part of me melts a little at the casual intimacy. Where can I get two of you? I almost say. But coming on too strong is just my brand of dating habit, so I resist that particular urge because I have already decided I don't want to mess this particular rodeo up. Less than ten minutes, and any passerby could probably see how smitten I am. I try to blame it on the wine.

There's still a good fifteen minutes until the start time for the film—an action-comedy we had both agreed would be a safe choice for a first date—so we both consult our menus to place an order before the lights dim.

"Do you know what will go well with the wine?" Randy asks, and I chuckle to myself.

"I practically memorized the menu before you got here," I confess. "I'm stuck between a mushroom-and-swiss burger or buffalo wings with blue cheese dressing. Either one would probably go perfect with the Merlot."

Randy makes a growl of a sound that is surely mimicking his rumbling stomach. "Damn, both of those sound good," he says. Then he glances at me, sheepish. "Would you mind if we got both and shared?"

Be still, my beating heart, this man actually wants to share food with me? Most guys I've dated have always taken the last slice of pizza without asking if I wanted it first. I don't think one ever even offered to give me a bite of dessert either.

Funny how the little things could matter so much.

I must have taken too long before he asks, hesitant, "Would you be okay with that, or...?"

Under that stare, a blush begins to spread across my face. "No, no, that's perfect, actually."

A relieved smile graces his lips. "Great. I was afraid I'd overstepped some boundary or something."

"When it comes to food? With me? Never." And, thankfully, he laughs.

After Randy gets his wine and we place our order for the burger and an order of wings, we chat quietly before the film starts. This close, he smells of coconut shampoo and mint mouthwash. The headiness of the wine makes me laugh a bit too much, but he seems reassured by my sense of humor.

Ten minutes into the previews (which always seem to run so long), I turn my head away from the screen for just a second, and my eyes meet Randy's as I catch him staring at me. He makes a grimace, embarrassed, but I smile.

"Do I have something on my face?" I ask, whisper-light, and he just chuckles.

"Sorry for being so obvious," he says. "I just wanted to see your reaction."

"Oscar bait doesn't really do it for me," I say, citing the last preview of some movie set in Versailles before the French Revolution.

"Then what does do it for you?"

A tingle runs through me as I realize we're no longer talking about a silly movie trailer or our favorite film lists.

I open my mouth to say some double entendre of my own, only to be interrupted by the waitress arriving with our food. Randy ducks his head and splits the burger while I slide a few wings onto his plate. We cheekily toast our burger halves instead of our wine glasses.

The bittersweet quality of the Merlot pairs nicely with the food, especially the blue cheese dressing I drizzle over my wings. Randy nudges me and whispers in my ear, "I think I need you as a guide on all my future wine adventures."

I take a nice long sip of my dwindling glass before saying, "I could give you a few pointers."

The movie may as well be an after-thought because Randy and I can't seem to stay quiet long enough to watch a scene in full. I kick off my heels halfway through and nearly curl up in my overlarge seat. "I could fall asleep right here, but don't let me," I say.

"Why?" he asks as he reclines his own seat. He hasn't looked at the screen for at least ten minutes; his eyes have been glued to me ever since we finished our meal.

"Because I snore," I say, the wine making me too loose-lipped, but I can't bring myself to care.

Randy barks out at a laugh before leaning into my space again. His breath is warm on my cheek, and I imagine he would taste just like the Merlot if I were to kiss him right then. "Now I definitely will let you sleep just to hear your mighty snoring."

I swat at him, but he easily catches my hand in his. We stare at each other, so in-sync with this attraction we both seem to feel, and it's as if we're magnets from how we pull toward each other. Just a breath away and...

The rest of the audience erupts in laughter right then, and we both jump at the same time because we haven't been paying attention to the movie at all.

But Randy is the first to recover, smiling in that embarrassed way of his, until he says, "Wanna pay our tab and blow this joint?"

I nod enthusiastically. "Yes, let's."

After we count out our money for the order and a tip, we leave the movie early. Our hands find each other as soon as we get outside with a dusky sky to greet us. Then I worry that things are going too well, that I'm just reading too much into our easy flirtation. But Randy tugs my hand until we're standing side to side, me looking up at him even with my heels back on.

"Did you feel like going home yet?" he asks.

I hesitate despite my heart's ardent no. "What did you have in mind?" I ask, a little wary of the answer.

"Anything you want," he says, a promise in his voice.

"Anything?" I repeat.

"Well, anything that we can afford," he amends.

I glance up at the sky with its bluish-purple glaze. I feel as if I could get lost in it, just like how I feel that I could live this date over and over and never let it become anything but the perfect sphere it has been.

Then I turn my gaze back to Randy. "How about I take a rain check?" I ask.

And in that moment I see the hurt blossom in his eyes. "You didn't have a good time?"

"I had a great time," I say, trying to allay his fears. We both have had our share of rejections and disappointments. "But too much of a good thing? I don't want to ruin my chances."

His eyes crinkle, his brow and mouth almost a matching frown. "Olivia..."

"Don't try to change my mind," I say, letting loose his hand right then. "We'll see how we feel tomorrow. If we even want to see each other again."

"So you're putting a pause on things?" he asks.

"In a manner of speaking," I say.

I can tell he's frustrated by this, as if he knows better than I do, but right now we're seeing each other through the glamour of wine and close-contact chatter, a veil of intimacy that may not hold up in the light of day outside of a darkened theater.

"Let's talk tomorrow," I say, "and then we'll decide if there'll be a second date."

"This date was nearly perfect," he says, clearly ready to debate me on the matter, but then I press a fingertip to his lips.

"Trust me on this," I say. And then, just like that, I'm the one who starts to walk away first.

I took a gamble. Tomorrow morning, silence may greet me, or maybe I'll find a new text notification from the guy I hope won't be the one who got away.

Because I really do want to believe that there was a lot more honesty than fabrication, even with the haze of a good Merlot clouding our senses.

How did the saying go? The truth came out while you were drinking? I had to hope that was actually a reality for Randy and me.

I have my fingers crossed, universe. Your move.