Drinking

The best and worst version of myself always was brought out by wine, merlot.

Behind a glass half empty, she sat under a full shine of smile.

As I was being swallowed whole by the light beaming from her eyes, I felt a violent thunder shake within the walls of my chest. Such violence had not found its way in that lonely region in a while.

For a moment, I forgot myself in her.

Another moment longer looking into the brilliance of her visage and I would’ve surrendered to the sweet oblivion it offered. Her cheekbones were heights for which only seasoned climbers would spend willingly months of preparation, lips farmers would save for only themselves for how juicy they looked, and a body that put hourglasses down for how more curvaceous they should be.

This was no acceptable way to think. How much did I drink of the liquid red courage that stood before us? I remember drinking a glass before being consumed by the beauty of her that consumed my whole being but I certainly couldn’t have drunk enough to relinquish control of my thoughts.

Or was it two glasses? The glasses were of considerable size. How long have we been here?

“Should we get another bottle?,” I heard myself say, as I was once again taken aback by the look of invitation beaming from her eyes. Her unchanging features offered no reproach, but only invitation. By then I saw double of her, two figures of the same glory that seemed to louden the thunder beating within my chest, with no lightning in sight.

Every visible piece, which was now twofold, of her dared the thunder beating inside me to grow with increasing fervor as she talked about her youth, wishing I were floating beside her as she skated through her childhood neighborhood at night in pursuit of escape from loneliness, as she met up with her weed dealer at the local McDonalds, in whose parking lot she sparked up conversations with the local crazies about the happenings of the Podunk town she was situated in, a youthful escape I wish Life had bestowed upon me.

I was drunk now, floating with my thoughts.

All was lost. There was no way I could come back from the oblivion I found in her smile.

But I was satisfied with myself.

And her.

Moreover, as first date conversations are wont to fulfill, her words filled me with hope of further revelations of our respective pasts that informed conversations of our future, one promising of two to three kids on the lawn jumping through water emanating from sprinklers, days off spent in wait of said kids coming home from high school, and those same kids standing before me lying on my death bed seeing me off to the other side.

She must have noticed I was stuck in my thoughts when she asked, “are you alright? Have you had too much to drink?”

“Maybe,” I replied nervously, “I was kinda nervous. I wasn’t even gonna show up. Dates that friends set up are overly improbable.”

“So you were gonna stand me up?” she asked under the same smile that drew me deep into myself.

“As disappointed as you’ll be, yes.”

“I was going to do the same.”

“Two birds of a feather.”

“Why’d you stay?”

“The merlot. I think it’s really good.”

“I can see that. You’ve had three glasses.”

“So it’s three.”

She laughed. Even her heart was informed by her heart.

That sound was enough to make me forget every thought that occupied every space of my head for the previous 20 minutes.

She paused for a second but said yes.

The lightning finally followed the thunder.