John and Marissa

John was always meticulous in his dress. Shirts ironed crisply with fresh smelling spray-on starch, shoes polished, pants creased down the middle, a testament to his era.

He was silvered-haired now but in his prime, he had thick black-brown hair cut neatly - not military short, but contained, in place, reliable.

With his sunglasses on, you would have thought him a regular kind of guy, pleasing but nothing to swoon over. But when he removed the shades, he had the most startling blue eyes you could imagine.

They were mesmerising. At one moment that turquoise depth that evokes holidays by the sea, and the next, the crisp sincere blue of cornflowers.

They were unforgettable eyes made more enthralling by his moods, sparkling with witty repartee, velvet with earnest concern or warm friendship, and then that vivid blue of John in love.

When he met, Marissa, his eyes were vivid blue almost immediately.

He had gone to the bar somewhat reluctantly with some pals from his former hometown. His best friend, David, was leaving for Europe on a three-year assignment for his law firm, and they had decided to meet up for one last night out.

Marissa was working behind the bar, a job she endured to pay her way through university. Not that anyone would have known it was a chore, she was friendly and patient with the customers, but knew when to call for back up if they got rowdy or difficult.

She had Titian red hair, all bundled up and threatening to bust out of its restraints at any moment. The wayward curls that had already escaped, framed her round face like a russet garland.

By the end of the evening, Dave and the gang were verging on rowdy and it was John, who made the apologies, asked to call for a taxi and shepherded the group out the door.

Marissa smiled as they left. They were not the worst customers she had survived but she was glad they were gone. The one with the blue eyes though, she thought to herself, he was quite lovely.

The next night at work there had been a bunch of blue and white Michaelmus daisies waiting for her at the bar, with a little note.

“Someone should thread these, through your beautiful hair,” it said, “Thank you for putting up with us last night. I’d love to buy you lunch on Saturday. If it’s a yes, I will see you at Brunelli’s at 12.30. If it’s a no, I will have to make do with the ravioli and two bottles of wine – John.”

When Saturday came around John was a bundle of nerves. His way of coping was do focus on the small things. He ironed his white shirt with precision. His navy pants, a wool blend, were steam pressed with a razor-sharp crease. Dark tan brogues were spit polished till gleaming. He wore a checked tweed sports coat with blue and tan hues and a woollen scarf to keep out the cold. His cologne, just a hint, was a timeless French label of Guerlain, Habit Rouge.

He had brought a small posey of wildflowers for Marissa, because already, they reminded him of her. She was all wild colour and movement to his steady restraint.

As he waited at Brunelli’s he ordered a bottle of Merlot and it sat there on the table breathing with him in anticipation of her arrival.

It was closer to 1pm when he caught the first glimpse of her…a spring of red curls surrounded by a riotous headscarf of hot pink, turquoise and cobalt blue. She was taller than he remembered and much more beautiful.

He pulled out her chair and she beamed at him. He remembers feeling blessed by her gaze, a warm saturation of pleasure flowing right through to every fingertip.

He poured the Merlot and that started a conversation about good wine and Italian food, and travel, and history, and then families, and politics, and relationships, and religion and culture, and then back again to food and wine.

They were the last people left from the lunch sitting and the waiters skirted around them to reset the tables for dinner.

That was their beginning, and it was wonderful. It remained their ideal date for more than 40 years. They never tired of the menu, or the wine, and they never tired of each other.

In a face deeply lined and under a full head of thick silver hair, John’s eyes are still an astounding blue.

He orders the Stracciatella soup, and the cotoletta Milanese.

The waiter opens the Merlot and pours him a glass while John’s blue eyes search in vain for a ridiculous head scarf and flaming curls.

by Michèle Nardelli

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