Save the Last Glass for Me

Under the dark skies, where strings of glowing night lights dot the sky, I patiently await for him to make a move, a first, the first, any move towards me. But, he is intent on doing it right the first time, not a repeat or a do over, but to nail it the first time, the waiting becomes exhausting. With something to tell his brothers, correction comrades back in the barracks of how he got it right on the first try.

So I wait patiently for him to make that move.

Any move towards me.

At least pretend to, so that I know that he’s thinking the same as I am. That we were selected then chosen for one another. That our hearts are intended to beat as one. That we can go on no longer living apart, two houses in two different places away is long enough, whatever…

Or that we were forever meant to be, despite what ‘they’ve’ said, our families.

Non-compares to what they say, and what we think and believe. We were meant for each other, and so therefore, and forever more we shall be.

Hopefully, tonight…

Finally, he moves after staring at me, I hope, suppose to sinking his finger inside of his collar, winging and stretching it forward from his neck. He sighs reluctantly. I flinch.

This must be the moment that he...makes...his move.

He reaches for my hand, caressing it inside of his.

I shudder, the mere touch of his fingers against my hand sends a bolt of chills up my spine, and suddenly I’m woozy, unable to formulate words, thoughts, visions. Until, he asks for my preference in wine.

Cold, I think, perhaps fruity. I don’t know. Are we of legal drinking age, should've I have swiped my sister’s ID, correction borrowed without her knowing? Do they card here?

The weariness in my eyes, and the now death-grip of his hand tells him my anxiety has swelled, and its best he makes the decision, take the lead… to do... what-ever...

He orders for me.

I sigh, what a relief. Take a bullet for your love, because I have the faintest idea. Aren’t you older than me? What is age when it comes to love, does it really matter?

A waiter shows up promptly at the flick of my lover’s hand, signally a choice has been made on the long awaited wine list that he’s carefully studied for the past 30 minutes.

I am to be surprised, he tells me.

Oh joy, can’t wait, my knees knock underneath the table he has made his first real move of the night with me. Nah, the hands don’t count, we do that practically all the time. This move is different and sacred, I shall always remember this night, together.

Our waiter returns, holding a bottle wrapped in a cloth napkin, announcing the date and year and all the other things associated with wine. I only managed to wrap my head around the part, ‘served chilled.’

Yippee, I cheer within myself, this I can do. I’m actually looking forward to the sweet nectar of earth’s bounty. I read that once, and have always wanted to use that line in something, and this time seems most appropriate.

He takes a small sip, whisks it around his palate, allowing the flavors to mull at the tip of his tongue before swallowing, signaling our waiter to leave the bottle at the table.

What? Where’s mine, my time, my destination. The flavors of sandalwood, and plum hover over the table, calling my name to taste to plunder to accept.

Daring not to move or miss this moment, he looks deep into my eyes, searching for what I could not say or utter. The words he wanted to hear in the stillness of the night.

I did not blink, anticipating what was coming next.

He motioned for my glass, reaching for the refill or fill, I’d lost count. The waft of his cherry bomb cologne held me captive in a trance. Unable to speak to whisper a palpable word that would make sense to both of us.

Reluctantly, I slid it silently across the table in his direction.

All four fingers grasped it tightly as if he was strangling the long-stemmed glass.

I gasped.

He lowered the French crystal goblet to the table’s lip to allow the contents of the bottle now tilted on its side held by his other hand adjacent to his ear for the dark-woodsy flow of the liquid contents, quickly and quietly into the glass below.

I swallowed hard with a growing yet brewing anticipation.

He swallowed too, I don’t know why.

Ravished by the mere thought of the filled glass, correction half-filled glass, my thoughts have gotten so far ahead of me.

A lone spray of the purple, reddish, grape splatters his hand onto the off-white tablecloth. At some point in his pouring his eyes or thoughts of me have been diverted to something behind me. Shyly I glance over my shoulder. No one. Was it someone who just passed by? No one. No one has been passed us in the last 12 minutes, so to speak when I carefully checked my watch at the begin of the pour or at least when my anticipation of the smooth, berry-filled liquid would lathered my palate.

A lone fork dances on the ground in the distance, someone has spilled something, unbalanced imperfection to carry a tray of plates, glasses, cutlery and half empty wine bottles. The golden, yellow variety’s spill rushes towards my feet. I drop my napkin to keep the stain from drowning me, bringing me back to him, that bottle and the anticipation of it all.

“Merlot?” I say, beaming over the edge of my glass, waiting for the moment he will acknowledge me.

“No, Chardonnay.”

Immediately, I slam the glass onto the table, “I never liked her.”

“Nor did I.”

We both laugh...careless whispers of our snickering fills the night air.

He returns to pouring the last glass for me in our makeshift France, an underground cellar only known to the locals. His hands are more fragile now, vibrating as he pours, I help to balance the stem with my hand underneath. In a worn tore coat missing buttons, lifted from a park bench, and me in my half favorite ankle-boots, one high-heel leather with one low, red-polka dot rubber, thrown over his lap.

Don’t ask, I can’t seem to find the others.

We raise our glasses for the last toast of the night. A exuberant grin washes over my face, sending chills through my body. And I can’t help but think of that odd night in Paris, when we were once young, and first in love.