Meet Cute Merlot

Meet Cute Merlot

She told me that I just had to meet him. Had to. She, a person whom I would meet only this once-- Cath-- like a fairy godmother bringing me men from her very own past. She was sitting across the lunchroom table from me, on our lunch break from training for a job, it would turn out, that she wouldn't take. "There is just something about you that screams his name-- I think you would get along real well. We used to date a year or so back, but now we just perform together. He is going to be playing an open mic this Tuesday in the college pub. I really think you should go. Go. See what happens"

So here I am, setting myself down alone at a table for two. I know it sounds cliché to say, but it is the way that this is: I have never been set up on a date before. I'd never casually dated in any way, shape, or form. Nonetheless, being set up to go on a date with a stranger by a stranger. But here I am. It's not that I am desperate, it's just-- he came at such strong recommendation, I just had to see for myself what Cath foresaw between us. I had to.

I removed my mask and absent-mindedly looked around at the other diners, chewing and smiling and laughing at one another (though not at me). A shadow moved across me, and I quickly looked up at the distraction of the light: a tall, wiry, young man in a hospital mask and wire-rimmed glasses.

"Mind if I sit here? This is a table for two, after all"

"Well, that depends... I'm supposed to be meeting someone here... are you...?"

"Malcolm, yeah. Nice to meet you!" he said, draping his jacket over the back of his chair before draping his long self into it. "Do you mind if I?" gesturing at removing his mask

"Go for it".

The big reveal. There was about a 50/50 chance that the bottom of his face would be congruent with the one my mind had already conjured up based on the features it has seen. Am I holding my breath?

He smiled. A great big, confident, warm smile. The kind that has you instinctually smiling back.

"So, you play here? What time do you go up?"

"Yeah, I’m next up. Looks like the first band is getting ready" gesturing at the unkempt college kids stooping to detangle and unplug thick ropes of wire. "So,” he said with another disarming smile, “you're a friend of Cath's?"

"Er, well, not really--"

I began, but was saved the explanation as the waitress approached our table, a young girl in a black t-shirt with an incredibly chipper voice: "Hi there! Welcome to The Cellar. I'm Danielle, I'll be your server today. Tuesday is wine night! Which means you can get any glass off our list here" placing a laminated menu in between us on the table "for only $5, or a pitcher of any of them for $15. I'll give you a minute to decide!"

We leaned in to scan the list, very college-bar-esque names: Nihilist Wine Co., 19 Crimes, Big Pecker Wine, and something ambiguously titled "the house red"...

"This sounds appropriate", he said, his finger ginormous against the tiny menu print that said "Meet Cute Merlot".

I snorted and rolled my eyes at him in a way I hoped was flirtatious.

He reached his arm up and gave a friendly wave, and Danielle came bouncing back over.

“What did you decide?!”

Malcolm looked into my eyes long and serious for reassurance, before turning his gaze up to her.

“We’ll have a pitcher of the Meet Cute Merlot”, a big grin beginning.

“We’re on a first date,” I explained “we got set up by a friend. So it’s sort of our ‘meet cute’”.

His goofy grin spread to her instantly “Well! Isn’t that just extra! Best of luck you two! I’ll be right back with your Merlot,” she twinkled her fingers and bounced off.

And with that, we were alone, in a room full of people. I could feel the full weight of his attention as his gaze settled squarely upon my own. I wanted to squirm, but instead felt... comfortable. Warm, as if I’d already drank some wine. But indeed, no.

“So” he began, gesturing vaguely with his hands, “what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Ahhhh, the age-old question. I see you waste no time. But the real question, from my perspective anyhow, is how does one know when they’re grown up?”

“I suppose it’s because they are doing what they want. That thing they’ve always wanted to do.”

“Which for you would be?”

“Well, I mean, I asked you first! But alright, since we’re here. Play music. Most certainly. But I guess I’ve been grown-up since I was about 10 years old, then. No, I mean, I like open mics like this, but also on a more... paid basis.”

“Yeah, I can understand wanting to be paid for what you do. I’m excited to hear you play! Cath said great things.”

“Oh, jeeze”, he said, ducking his head down in a blush. “Well, we’ll see. I might not. But ok-- what about yourself?”

“I want to write poems. And I also teach yoga, right now-- but I would love to teach yoga outside of a suburban studio setting. It’s been so impactful for me as a person and I think it could really help people. Though a lot of the people who might benefit the most, don’t always have access to it. I saw an article a few months back, a man was teaching yoga to inmates in prison. And immediately I was like “I want to do that”. But, I also have that feeling a lot. I am easily distracted.”

“Easily inspired. Did you ever hear of the poetry collection from prison inmates they’re assembling right now? It sounds like something you’d be really into! It’s called Prose Vs. Cons”

“.... Wow.” I was stunned silent, as he was choking on his own joke. “ Are you kidding?? Did you just come up with that right now for this occasion?! That was a highly specific pun.”

“Yeah, well” he said, slinging his arm around the back of his chair, mock-cocky “you’re rolling with the big dogs now.”

“My god.”

Danielle popped by with the wine, stifling her excitement at the obvious chemistry we were having. After she set the wine down, she retreated behind him and made big eyes at me, mouthing something along the lines of “YAS!!” at me. I smirked and winked in return. Malcolm caught this and laughed, exclaimed “Are you flirting with the waitress!?”

“Me? Who, me? No, no. Of course not”, and sprinkled a wink at him for good measure.

He poured out our wine, the smile never leaving his lips the whole while, as if another joke was bubbling just below the surface . I watched in anticipation, letting my mouth hang open in a grin. The band started up. A loud cover of Santeria, a college-bar classic. We paid them no mind as our conversation carried us away, though we always paused to applaud where appropriate. They then began a cover of Jimmy Eat World’s “The Middle”. “Hey... don’t rot yourself away..”

“Man, I love this song” I told him

“Really?!” He seemed surprised.

“What? It’s a banger!”

Enthusiastically, I was keeping time with my wine glass, lightly tapping it away on the table. At that crucial moment in the chorus where the music pauses for just a hiccup before beginning again-- that syncopated beat: “It just”- I raised my glass upwards off the table-- “takes some time, little girl”- and squarely on the beat, brought it excitedly down... with enough force to cause the glass to shatter! The stem broke completely off from the goblet and the wine sloshed up and over the rim, all onto my clean white t-shirt. We both stared at each other, mouths open, incredulous. Shocked. Malcolm broke the silence as his unhinged mouth slowly mutated into a wild smile, and began to laugh: a slow, deep belly laugh; a husky, warm sound with a pause between each pronounced syllable, to the tune of emptying out a giant jug of water-- Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha...

I covered my face for shame, and looked briefly out between my fingers to see him snapping a photo with his cell phone. He thought this was hilarious. My embarrassment is his humor. Okay, that’s good-- I’m glad. There’s lots more of it where that came from.

“He re,” he said, sliding his wine glass over to me, “see if you can do it again.” Grinning conspiratorially, I waited for the chorus to come round again. “it just takes--” and I brought the glass up... and then down again on the beat, with enough gusto to break the stem clean off for a second time, sending a tidal wave of wine up over the edges of the remnant of the glass, leaving it in dark red pools on the table and again, all over my shirt. We were high on disbelief; sputtering with barely contained laughter, like water sprinklers.

“Is your water bottle empty?” he asked, gesturing at my ever-present Hydroflask.

I chugged the remaining swig. “Now it is. Why?”

“Here, hand it to me.” I did as asked, and watched as he emptied the rest of our wine into the bottle, opened his wallet and placed a 20 on the table, and stood. “We should get out of here before anyone notices the damage.”

I smiled, hard. “But wait, what about your gig?”

“Meh, it’s not like I’m getting paid for it. My guitar is in my trunk-- let’s take this bottle down to the river and I’ll do my set for you there.”

He held out his hand, and I accepted. Such a tender, tingling feeling. Sweetly sweaty, but of course. He led me out of the bar and into the dusk, into the rest of our crazy first date.

* * *

All these months later, and he still has that photo of me as his phone backdrop. All this time later, and that wine-stained shirt is still in my closet-- I’ve added a few stains to it since then, as it would turn out, my clumsiness was not confined to that evening. It’s since been retired, worn only on occasion now-- saved for nights when we crack open a bottle and reminisce on humble beginnings: broken wine glasses, uncontrollable laughter, dusk, and his guitar down by the river.

Based on a True Story.