A Quiet Drink

It’s a long road. We all know that. There is no one to tell us, but we know it - from the first time we feel the sun rising above the hills and the rain washing over us. These coastal mountains do not always seem like home – that place in deepest memory. The wind sweeps off a different ocean. Still it is our home – our new and cherished home. We can grow here, and grow well.

She glances at the text message on her cell phone and tightens her fingers around the warm paper coffee cup. The scent of Arabica rises. Gazing out the plate windows of the café, she regards the street - full of wandering faces - and sees their breath billow in the frigid air. The cars blow their horns and people shout, but here, in her fragrant corner, all is peaceful and silent.

Unwanted thoughts drift to her most recent relationship, ended – though she can hardly fathom it - six months ago. He had to do what he had to do. Those were his words, and they are why she is sitting here now, alone - as she does every evening.

She sips the coffee and tries not to dwell on wasted time. Her eyes drift back to this new message. It is a nice invitation - polite. The words are carefully chosen. She knows that their author works on the other side of her office building. They are not quite strangers; she has exchanged smiles with him, but they have never spoken. People say he is kind. She should reply to the text.

Communication has always been the challenge – it has been that way her whole life. That is what ended her last relationship, and others before.

The time comes to leave our winding haven and transform. It feels strange to be gathered this way, but it is better than being alone. There is a soft music - something of the ages - in the gentle and reverent touch. The sound of laughter reverberates in an atmosphere of quiet gratitude - an ancient and ageless dance. Now we are together forever.

She has seen him at their workplace; the first time was about a month ago. She was sitting at her cubicle, legs crossed and long brown hair gathered in a ponytail. Engrossed in her tasks at the workstation, she did not notice as he approached. When he crossed the corner of her vision, though, she turned toward him. His green eyes flashed into an easy, sweet smile, but he did not speak. He nodded, and then shyly walked on.

There was something about the brief encounter that made her ask about him around the office. One of her co-workers, a well-meaning busybody with too much time on her hands, knew him – or of him.

“Oh, I’m telling you” she gushed, “You two would be PERFECT for each other.”

Now comes the waiting – the years in darkened treen. Silence masks a universe of turmoil - coupling and uncoupling, bonds formed and broken in the fury of the ancient alchemy. Unseen and untouched, the magical process rolls on as the calendar turns. Then, in an abrupt instant, the blur of time comes into sharp focus. Light returns, if only for a glittering moment, and oak gives way to bottle and cork.

She saw him after that - once or twice a week, it seemed – but, each time, only for a moment. Passing in the hallway, in a crowded elevator, or on the street in front of their office building – when they crossed paths it was always in an unexpected place, at an unexpected moment. There was never any time to share, beyond a furtive glance or an awkward grin - until the day she received his text.

It was an invitation for a drink - nothing more. The words were simple and unassuming. Best of all, they lacked artifice. She had been on her own for nearly half a year now, and had no conscious thoughts of altering that fact, but when she saw the message on her phone in the café, she began to reconsider. Am I ready to try this again?

Town or country, the distant destination is an uncontrollable mystery. After such a journey through years and miles, an appreciative host on arrival is the fondest hope and the greatest reward – at a royal table or a backyard picnic. How we have anticipated the soft shuffle of the corkscrew and the emphatic embrace of crystal. Is this a good place to end the journey? With luck, it is a celebration.

The warm bistro welcomes her in from the biting chill of winter twilight. As the doors close behind her, they muffle the bustling city sounds – but these do not affect her. She looks around. It is a room suffused in hazy, crimson incandescence. The space is half-filled with small, round tables, each adorned with a single Camellia flower perched in a champagne flute. She does not see him, and briefly passes through revolutions of self-doubt. This is the right place, isn’t it? Am I early, or is he late? Will I seem desperate if I’ve arrived too soon? How will he feel when he understands everything about me? When they learn, it changes everything…

Then she sees him, sitting at one of the little tables by the window. The city lights surround his face like a neon halo. He notices her and rises, stepping forward with a smile.

As he approaches, he brings his level right hand to his forehead and lifts it away in a salute. She stops and looks at him quizzically. He puts his fists together - thumbs raised - and slides the right hand forward past the left.

“How did you…you know how to sign?” she asks.

Reading her lips, he nods.

She blinks and turns her head slightly, then also begins gesturing.

“You’re deaf, too?” she asks, signing the question.

He smiles at her, nodding again.

“Yes,” he replies with his hands. “Would you like to sit down?”

They pull their chairs to the table, and he points at a dark bottle on the marble top.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he signs, “but I ordered some wine.”

“Wonderful,” she replies. “What is it?”

He pours two glasses and hands one to her.

“Merlot. I hope you like it. It came from a long way off.”

Their eyes meet.

“It’s my favorite.”

He reaches out to make a toast, a private prayer for this new friendship - and all that it might bring. She smiles at him as their glasses touch. Tasting the wine, she looks up and signs.

“It’s perfect.”

Yes, this is a good place to be - the best place.