Merlot at Midnight

It's raining today. A slight drizzle falls sideways onto my window pane. The wind rocks the old house back and forth, and I feel like I am out at sea, swaying. I close the rusty shutters and bundle myself in bed, dozing back off as two stray cats squeal outside. The sun warms my face upon waking, and I am comforted to know that the rain has come and gone. A chill remains in the air, bells chime in the distance, and swallows manically dive and circle the ancient castle that proudly stands in front of the house.

I have to remind myself that I have traveled to Dubrovnik alone, and I must get out of bed and do something today. A Croatian dictionary sits on my bedside table, and my journal is open, a few pages misplaced across the room due to the wind. There are two types of wind in Croatia; Bura, which comes from the Northeast, and is considered the "good wind"- dry and cold, and then there is Jugo, which blows from the Southeast, is moist and stormy, and causes an array of melancholic behavior. It can be responsible for headaches, depression, and joint pain. Jugo is the "bad wind." Some fabled stories even say that certain people have gotten away with murder during Jugo winds.

I rummage through my bag and pull out some Tylenol, popping a few into my mouth as I peel myself from bed. I walk over to the kitchen, the wood is cold, and my feet are heavy. I fill an electric kettle full of water and wait patiently as it boils. Inside my fridge is some leftover salami, a clementine, half a jar of olives, and a bowl of grapes that my host family and I picked from the vines outside on the terrace. I pick up the bowl and research where to get lunch, as I simultaneously scoop out seeds from the grapes with my thumbnail.

My stomach growls, and I feel hollow. I continue with my morning rituals, pouring a cup of tea, grabbing my keys, my Lucky Strike cigarettes, my journal, and my wallet. I throw my denim jacket on and stuff all the contents inside my pockets after downing my tea and head out for the day. The restaurant I decide on is called "Mama's Pot," and it's in the Old City center. The reviews are excellent enough, but that's why I've traveled all this way to Europe- to leave my own glowing reviews of the cities most promising places to eat. On my walk to the city center, I light a cigarette and watch my clumsy feet move down the cobblestone alleyways. I consistently go over the fight I had with my husband the previous night as I count my footsteps and take a drag from my smoke. It went something like this:

Why do you always need to run away?

Why won't you come with me?

I'm comfortable where we're at.

I'm suffocating.

We haven't talked since, and though there is a significant time difference between California and Croatia, I am pretty positive it has nothing to do with this.

It takes me a few times circling the square to find the restaurant, as I've never been very good with directions, especially in foreign territory. The restaurant is small, with a patio billowing out onto the sidewalk, and umbrella's towering over tables with red and white checkered cloth. A tall, handsome man all dressed in black approaches me. His hair is slicked back into a ponytail, with both sides shaved like some sort of sexy Viking. He immediately starts speaking English to me, as if he can smell the tourist all over me. I am wearing a black and white polka-dotted dress and slim sunglasses that curve up at the sides and clutching my journal.

"Can I get you a table, miss?" The man smiles at me. 

His English is incredibly impressive. I try my best to win him over with the little Croatian I know.

"Dobar Dan," I say, doing a curtsy. Why did I do that?

He laughs, “Oh, ti znaš govoriti Hrvatski?!"

I wrinkle my face in confusion, having no idea that he's just asked me if I know how to speak Croatian. He laughs again and motions me to follow him over to a table. 

"What can I get you?" He asks politely.

"An ashtray and an espresso, please. Hvala." I smile and look up at him.

He momentarily shields the sun from my eyes.

"Hvala." He says back, placing his hands behind his back as he walks away to fulfill my request.

I open up my journal and browse the menu in front of me. It's all in English. The sexy, nice waiter comes back with an ashtray and a tiny cup of coffee for me. The porcelain cup is so small you could drink the entire contents in one sip.

"Where are you from?" he asks, standing by, intrigued.

"Los Angeles." I smile, lighting a cigarette and delicately sipping my espresso like a lady.

"Are you a writer?" He asks, looking at my journal.

"Mmm, you're perceptive, aren't you?"

He laughs, possibly confused by the word perceptive. It's always a fun thing to play word games with someone who doesn't speak the same language as you. 

"Yes, I am a writer. I'm a food journalist- I write reviews on restaurants."

His eyes grow more prominent as he sits down in the empty seat beside me, going over the menu.

"You must order the mussels, and the wine is superb here." He hands me the wine list as I glance over my options.

"Superb?" I echo and then pause. "What do you really think about this place?" I whisper, trying to get the scoop. 

"Well, I love it. I hope you will too because I own it." He smirks.

"Oh! This is your restaurant?" I grow embarrassed.

"Yes. And I own the wine shop next door too. I can get you anything you'd like." He explains.

I decided to order the mussels and a glass of Posip, a full-bodied white wine, as I finish my espresso and wait on fresh-baked bread to arrive. He stands in the corner, watching me stare at my empty notebook, so I don't get caught staring back at him.

"What is your name?" I finally ask, peering at him from beneath my sunglasses.

"Ivan. And you?"

"Sophia."

“S-o-p-h-i-a.” He repeats, drawing out every syllable.

"Such a beautiful name for such a beautiful woman."

I blush as I funnel wine down my gullet. The coffee is rich and dark, a bit chalky, and the wine washes down the taste of my cigarette with a lovely almond flavor. Once the food arrives, I dunk warm bread into fresh olive oil and balsamic and soak up every bit of juice overtaking the mussels. It is so mouth-wateringly delicious. Ivan chuckles as he watches me devour my meal in pure enjoyment.

"What are you doing later?" He asks me, juggling my empty plates. "There is a place I want to take you." 

I finish chewing the rest of my food and wash it down with the last gulp of my wine.

"Sure," is all I manage to say.

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I wear a white blouse, with long dark jeans, and heels. They pitter-patter across the cobblestone. It's dark, and I have no idea where I'm meeting him, except for the little dot I follow on my phone. I flip my hair and smell my armpits. I immediately regret this decision. 

"Hey," Ivan says, waving me down from a picnic table down a dirt pathway.

I clutch my chest and begin laughing nervously.

"You scared me." I croak.

He cautiously moves his hair from in front of his face and lights a cigarette. He then pulls a bottle of wine from his bag.

"The best Merlot from the shop." He grins widely.

I walk over to the bench and sit down beside him.

"This is where you wanted to take me?" I ask, watching him uncork the bottle and pour two glasses full of juicy Merlot.

"Yes, is this okay?" He shrugs, handing me a glass.

I gaze out in front of me and realize we are overlooking a giant cliff, the seaside washing down below and smashing against rocks, and a serene castle is glowing in the distance.

"Yes. Yes, this is fine." I smile to myself, sipping the wine. It tastes of plums, clove, and vanilla, and I relax into my body.

Ivan and I talk about the traveling we've done. What our home towns are like. How making things with your hands is underrated. We sip from sparkling glass and stain our teeth purple. We smoke too much between effortless conversations.

"Shit," I say, looking into my empty carton. "I'm out of smokes." I laugh, desperate.

"Have you ever driven a motorcycle?" Ivan asks me.

I burst out laughing. "No, and tonight will not be the night."

He tosses me a helmet and tells me to get on the back of his bike. I follow suit and wrap my arms around his torso. On the way to the store, it starts to sprinkle on us. It feels good as it spatters my face with a slight sting. We wait on the attendant to come back from break and share music with each other on the curb outside the store. He shows me traditional Celtic-style music that he enjoys, and I play West Coast psych-rock that he mocks. After restocking, we get back on the bike and head towards town. We stop off near my rental and smoke one last cigarette on the top of a castle. My legs are wobbly, so I sit down. Ivan sits down beside me. We are both quiet, and I can still taste the Merlot on my tongue. Ivan scoots closer to me.

"Can I kiss you?" He asks so politely. 

I think about it for a moment, finding that it is something I would truly enjoy, but I say,

"No. You can't kiss me. I have a person back home who I really love." I mean this wholeheartedly. I imagine my husbands face, the way it looks when he laughs, and his eyes light up. The way his curly hair bounces when he walks. Everything is forgiven.

Ivan nods, understanding.

"Thank you for asking me," I say.

He scoffs, almost confused. "What kind of good man would I be if I did not ask?"

I lean my head on his shoulder. "You are a good man. And this is the best first date I've ever had."

"Well, we Croatian men are gentlemen. Teach your lover the importance of that." 

"Absolutely." I agree.

"Okay," he sighs, standing, dusting off his pants, "I should be going then."

He waves at me and jokingly acts like he is going to jump off the side of the castle. I laugh so hard I think I might pee myself if we don't get down fast enough. He helps me make my way back down to the path by my apartment, and we stop at his bike for a farewell.

"Tonight was exceptional, Ivan. I will never forget it. Hvala."

He grabs my hand so delicately into his and places his smooth lips softly onto the back of my palm. "Hvala." he says.

I watch him ride away on his bike as my hand continues to throb from his touch.

Once inside, I lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, smiling, thinking of only one man. I grab my phone and dial the only number I know by heart.

"Hi," I say, waiting for him to answer.

"Hey, baby," he reassures me, like always.