La Cita Soñada

I'm entering the bar for the third night this week. It's a classy place with live piano and great ambiance; normally understated enough, though tonight it's the busiest it's ever been. My usual seat I've warmed for countless weeks taken, and I'm forced to order down at the end like any other Tom or Sally from the street. The bartenders gaze finally meets my own, but his eyes are a reluctant sorry and I frown my disappointment in return.

"Gin, Soda, Lime. It's not that difficult."

I think to myself, waving a hand in frustration and reserving myself to the wait. I see a few familiar faces, though out of place among the sea of strangers, but all of them jovial enough. Smiling with their eyes and their lips, laughing with their chest and delighting in the moment. Then my eyes cross over her.

My skin starts to sweat immediately; my pupils dilating at the sight of what surely must be an angel. I try to swallow, but suddenly my collar seems to tight; my clothes too tight, my skin too tight to my bones. Someone passes in front of this enchanting vision and I find myself compelled to move to keep sight of her, pushing myself back from the bar with both hands and craning my neck.

The bartender taps my hand directly to summon my attention, and I look at him in response. He places a wide rimmed cup filled with a deep rich red liquid in front of me. Though the entire bar around me is in a state of cacophony, the liquid is placid; calm, serene, and inviting. I try to mouth to the bartender over a particular swell of piano arpeggio's that , "this isn't my gin" and he shakes his head and points down the bar, his finger drawing a line to the same woman who had caught me off guard entirely.

Flustered, I grab the glass, and give the divine creature another look. She swirls a glass of her own, as an uncorked bottle sits in front of her. Before taking a drink, I walk the sea of bodies to where she sits, like a queen on a throne. I'm a step away, and she looks relieved to see me, as if she didn't expect me to make it or to be overcome in my trepidation; "and who wouldn't tremble before your beauty or be so overcome?"

She raises a hand to my face, holding something between her fingers, small and brown and stained dark at one end. The object passes by my nose and I smell it now; the wine cork from the bottle. My eyes close involuntarily and aromas of raspberry, black cherry, plum, tobacco, vanilla, cloves, and even chocolate dot my senses. The moment so intoxicating, I gasp.

"A bottle of Merlot, and a glass a piece among lovers to help them realize their dreams," She said. Her voice was smooth, but bold and complex, and the wine was the same, maybe me question what I had taken for granted, and why I had been content with the gin.

We finished the bottle together. Our glasses always finding a way to replenish themselves just before being fully drained. Her company seemed to melt away all the others in the cramped bar; outshined by her brilliance, her wit, her beauty. I remember we left after the bottle, but before close. We leave the bar together and I look at her thinking this was the first night of the rest of my life.

The next morning I roll over on my bed, open my eyes and I'm shocked to find I'm alone. I sit up on the edge of my mattress, sheets thrown aside as I trace my memory. Anything after the bar is gone completely, and only the woman remains. I have a fragment of a thought, where I believe her name was Merlot, but the idea seems silly enough I soon convince myself otherwise.

After a shower, breakfast, and getting ready for work, I've fully convinced myself that the recollection of the night before was nothing more than fanciful illusion; a dream brought about by bad takeout and antihistamines. I slide on my blazer, close the door behind me and reach into my pocket to retrieve the key.

My fingers touch something soft and smooth, and immediately I can tell it's porous with little holes. Confused, I close my fingers around it and pull the thing out to examine it. A brown cork, with a dark beet red bottom sits gingerly between my fingers. I can smell the notes of cedar, fruit, and spice before I even bring it to my nose, and the memories of last night flood back again.

I did not see her again. I'm still unsure whether or not it was a dream, but the next time the bartender asked my order it was enchantingly easy to respond,

"I'll have a glass of Merlot."