Merlot and Falafel

One of the kindest things Theo’s father ever said to him, a sneering One day you’ll be pissing on my casket, is the only thought Theo has on the day of the funeral. A rattling, noisy memory, pressing at the confines of Theo’s skull until he’s sure it’ll worm its way out and reveal its ugly nature.

His mother must be having a similar recollection, as the faint dip to her lips is identical to the one Theo feels pulling at his mouth. They won’t discuss it, though. The last week and a half were the most they’ve spoken in years. Even now, standing in his aunt’s living room, pictures of Theo’s father posted around the room as black-clothed figures shuffle about with low murmurs, Theo’s mother stands a good distance away from him.

“Theo.” A middle-aged man that Theo vaguely recognizes comes forward, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough that he stumbles and his knees knock together. “Your old man always gave us all a good laugh. I’m sorry he left so soon.”

Theo gives a quiet, muted thanks but really wants to say, I’d piss on the casket if I could.

The man moves to talk to Theo’s mother — a foot away, but it feels closer to a hundred — and he takes the opportunity to slip into the kitchen. He almost trips over two of his cousins playing tag, but his aunt swoops in before he does, dragging both by the arm with a heated reproach. Theo part-pities them, part-wishes he was the one being dragged away.

Which is when he sees Emily.

She doesn’t belong. It’s obvious. Theo knows because he knows Emily, but even a stranger could look at her and believe she stumbled into the house by mistake. She’s far younger than any of the greying mourners, around Theo’s age, and she put careless thought into her outfit. Her shirt is dark, at least, but the cyan pants are clearly wrong.

The giant bouquet in her hands, though. That… that may belong.

“Emily,” Theo calls, and his confusion is so thick that several people look from between him and her before going back to their own conversations.

She spots him, and he half-expects an awkward platitude, but instead, she walks up to him and drops the bouquet on the counter. It clatters into a picture of Theo’s dad on his 53rd birthday, but she pays it no mind.

Nodding at the bouquet, she says, “These came to your apartment so I signed for them. Looked up your dad’s name from the card. Found a Facebook page with the viewing details. Here we are.”

Emily is as blunt as a wrecking bar, and she often leaves Theo’s thoughts splintered like she just pulled his head apart. The day she moved into the apartment diagonal from Theo’s, she knocked at his door, didn’t even introduce herself when he opened it, and said, “If you help me and my friends carry a mattress up the stairs I’ll bake some scones tomorrow.”

He answered, “Uh?”

And she simply rolled her eyes, like he was being dense, and clarified, “I’ll bake scones and give you a container full. I’m a good baker. So, help?”

That day started their friendship, as unconventional as it is since being with Emily often feels like he’s balanced on rollerblades, tied to the back of a car, and clinging on while she presses the gas. Now though, the friendship has gone lopsided and full of confessions that never seem to leave Theo’s mouth despite how desperately he wants them to. He’s constantly buzzing on unspoken comments about her long, brown hair, or the way she laughs way louder than anyone else in a room, unbothered by everyone hearing her glee. He likes the way she can speak up when he can’t. He likes her.

In any case, she’s at his dad’s funeral. Theo doesn’t know if he wants her here. Well, he almost always wants Emily around, as is the nature of his feelings towards her, but he doesn’t find it right for her to be here-here. He doesn’t think he could pretend to grieve in front of her. It’d be like putting a wig on and calling himself Dolly Parton.

“I took some of the good roses out of them,” she goes on when he’s been quiet too long, looking at the bouquet. “Just so you know. My table needed them more than here anyway.”

A goddamn hammer, Emily is.

“That’s… fine,” Theo settles on, not bothered by that. He can’t figure who knew to send flowers to his apartment, as he has always been careful not to give his friends a connection to his family. It’s been that way ever since he left, years ago. “Uh, how are you?”

She flips her dark hair out of her face and levels him a look. “Don’t ask other people how they are at your dad’s funeral. I know you don’t care much about your wellbeing but I do, so try to think about yourself from time to time.”

Gas pressed to the floor, Theo dragged behind.

He simply nods, then fidgets with his hands while she waits on him to say something. He doesn’t, still unsure of what his next step is. She breaks the silence after a long minute.

“A DIY funeral?” Emily asks, gaze roaming about the room, something unimpressed in her tone.

Theo works his jaw, defensive. “It saves a lot if you just… cut out all the pomp and grandeur. He went straight into the ground. We printed cards, sent them out. Told people they could look at his picture if they wanted, have a little wine and cheese.” He waggles his hands and echoes her words from earlier, “Here we are.”

Emily rolls her eyes and waves a hand. “It’s smart. I’m just confused as to why you put so much work into it. Isn’t that masochistic?”

Again, it’s as though she’s tossed him to the point of dizziness. “What?”

“Well, you already said he went straight into the dirt.” Emily shrugs. “To me? It looks like it’s over with. Why stay? No one in this house is actually here for you anyway.”

Theo chokes, “What are you talking about?”

He’s a quiet man, Theo knows. Awkward, his mom once told him. A dense bastard, his father added, and then followed with a violent shove to the floor that left Theo’s knee bruised and swollen for days. Theo’s words always float about his head, and he struggles to grab hold and put them into being.

Most times, Emily seems to hear him just fine, regardless of him speaking aloud or otherwise. But this? There’s no possible way she could know he’s thought, I’d piss on my father’s casket if I could, at least three times today.

Emily shrugs. “You told me what a piece of work your father was on our first date.”

It’s as though she slammed on the breaks, and he’s gone flying off through the rear of the car. His face feels numb and prickly yet his mouth moves to say, “I don’t remember a first date.”

She lifts her eyebrows, as though scorned, but she isn’t as angry as she’s trying to seem. Theo’s seen Emily angry, truly angry, twice now; once while on the phone in their apartment complex hallway, and again the time her friend’s boyfriend drunkenly tried kissing her. She becomes oddly quiet and focused, eyes narrowed but face relaxed, as though she were driving through a tricky traffic jam.

Even if she’s not angry, Theo slowly feels mortification creeping up his throat. He has no clue what she’s talking about. He couldn’t have truly forgotten such an important detail — with her.

Using a tone of voice that is borderline pity, borderline apathy, she explains in a slow way, “That’s because you were drinking terrible beer, and then when you ran out you finished off my rum.” She sighs. “I guess that wasn’t our first date. Besides you forgetting, there’s also the fact that a first date would need better booze, like…”

She trails off, but Theo only half-notices, too mortified at the idea of a date he didn’t remember. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can Emily is reaching for a bottle of wine on the counter, a red ribbon tied around its neck. A gift from one of the mourners.

Meet Cute, 2017 Merlot, the label says over the face of a woman. It’s an unusual wine to give at a funeral, but Emily laughs — loud, like always — and says, “This! A merlot. Yes, this will do.”

Theo feels a bit like he’s not part of the conversation, but he’s one of only two people talking. “I don’t think— I don’t… what?”

“I’m not having our first date the day of your dad’s funeral. That’s just crass,” she tells him, as though that’s the part he’s stuck on. “But I promise I’ll save the wine for when we do have it.”

Theo swallows a dozen words that don’t do much besides jumble in his throat, and for the first time since she walked into the house, Emily suddenly seems aware of his misplacement. Her mouth falls open, a dip in her brow. She’s quiet for a long pause.

“I’m sorry, Theo,” she says, in the end, voice taking a soft layer to it that is not standard for most of her conversations. That’s how he knows it’s for his ears only. She leans closer, eyes intent, and says, “About your dad, yes, but not for the reason everyone else in this house is saying sorry.”

“Almost no one,” he responds, and she blinks, caught off guard, and he likes how it was because of him.

“What?”

“You said no one was here for me. I’m telling you, almost no one.” His eyes catch on the way she rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, and feeling more sure of himself, he adds, “And even though I feel like we just went a hundred miles an hour through that first date conversation, yes, you’re right. A first date needs to be remembered, and have good booze.”

Her hands tighten around the neck of the bottle, but she smiles. “So you’re okay with going on a date with me?”

Theo can’t help it — he bursts into laughter. People look their way, but he doesn’t care.

“Emily,” he manages. “I should have asked you out months ago, and now we’re planning my dream date at a funeral, of all places.”

Her responding smile is sheepish. “Well, unconventional and morbid can be the new trend, right?”

He doesn’t answer, too busy laughing, but she smiles at him the whole time he does.

Emily does save the wine, as she promised. They squeeze an evening into their schedules three weeks later and take to the rooftop of the apartment complex. She pours Meet Cute into glasses that precariously fit in the lawn chair cup holders. Theo ordered some lamb kebabs and falafel from a popular Mediterranean restaurant and dishes the food out as equally as he can. The wine is good, with some smooth, raspberry flavor. The food is quick to disappear. The only lulls in their conversation come naturally, letting a comfortable silence fill the space as they sip at their glasses or stare at the streetlights below.

At the end of the night, the bottle mostly gone, Theo buzzes a long time over if he should kiss her.

Emily laughs at whatever she sees on his face and says, “Don’t think too hard about it. I’m a patient girl. We can save it for another night. Maybe with a grigio next time.”

He frowns, she laughs again, and says, “Oh, c’mere,” and then their noses brush, a hand in her hair, and—

“I’m okay with the merlot,” he tells her, and then chases the taste on her lips.