Moscato to Merlot

The air was warm outside, despite the cool chill of the breeze that passed through occasionally. Low music, a symphony of Rimsky-Korsakov, played over a small speaker. The candles on the round table seemed to dance with the tune and I could only watch in fascination. Not even the faery lights strung up along the window curtains were enough to pull my eyes away.

It had been six years since I last saw her. Aubrey Standt, even now, was a stunning woman. The waves of her brown hair now pulled up into a messy bun, and her amber-brown eyes framed with pastel purple glasses. Gone were here top-dollar clothes and designer bags, Aubrey now gracing my presence in a white sweater and a pair of dark blue sweatpants. The makeup I would typically find covering her face was forgotten, her natural features shining as brightly as the candles themselves.

Perhaps, stunning doesn’t even scratch the surface. Not when she turns her eyes to me and flashes a radiant smile.

“Why don’t you set the food out on the table? I’ll get us something to drink,” she says to me.

I can only nod to her, too far gone to do anything but listen to her. Our dinner table is nothing more than a three-foot coffee table sitting in her living room. With our plates already settled on the table, I opened up the take-out bag of Chinese food. Our favorite, as always, and our orders still the same. I can’t stop the smile on my face.

I stood no chance when Aubrey joined me once more. In her hands were two glasses of red wine, another favorite we once shared.

“Thank you,” I tell her, taking my glass with a grin. She smiles back to me, and the clink of our glasses meld with Scheherazade over the speaker.

“So, should we have a dinner theatre or the cliché dinner and movie trope?” I ask her, passing over the chopsticks. A running joke between us for the longest time, neither of us to this day can use these wooden spears properly.

“Definitely a cliché dinner and dancing, you mean,” she says back.

I laugh at that. Of course, she would suggest dancing. Back in high school, we were notorious for our horrid dancing skills. If stick people could dance, then yeah, we owned that dance floor. Now though, we were older, had grown into ourselves. I like to think that dancing with Aubrey would be less chaotic and more refined. Intimate even.

“Alright, dancing. As long as you don’t choose…that song,” I tell her, pointing one of my chopsticks at her. I had stabbed a piece of shrimp with it and Aubrey, mischievous grin still in place, leaned over and ate my shrimp with no remorse.

“Oh, so you’re a food thief now? What other dark secrets are you hiding?” I ask her. In revenge, I steal one of her egg rolls. Aubrey is super protective of her egg rolls. You don’t touch them. Ever. The reaction was priceless to me, regardless.

Aubrey let out a loud, dramatic gasp. I watch as her chopsticks hit the table with a series of clatters as her hands snatched up the remaining egg rolls. With amusement, I was graced with the sight of Aubrey shoving those fried delicacies right into her sweatpants pockets, all while maintaining eye contact.

I can’t help it.

I absolutely lose it, laughing long and hard. My eyes sting with tears and my lungs don’t hesitate to protest the lack of sufficient air. I can faintly feel Aubrey slung over my legs, shaking with her own laughter. The sound of her voice is intoxicating. Cheerful, bright, endearing, and full of adoration. That alone ceased my laughter, just so I could listen to her. I appreciatively held onto the giggles that followed her waning laughs, until she was looking up at me. Her head in my lap, egg rolls sticking out of her pockets, and soy sauce on the corner of her mouth.

She was a vision I would cherish in my memory for the rest of my life.

Chuckling to myself, I ease away from her and reach for my phone. I had it connected to the speaker while she called in dinner, so I allowed myself to choose the next song. One I knew she would love, would want to dance to.

You are the Reason began to float through the room, and with delight, I watch as recognition sparkled in Aubrey’s eyes. While we may have loved this song all those years ago, I can only pray my message is clear to her. With a steady hand out, I give her a smile as happy as her own.

“Dance with me. Dinner can wait,” I say.

Aubrey takes my hand, stands with the grace of a baby deer, and gives the quietest laugh. We decide that setting our wine down would ruin the dance. Instead, I held my glass in my left hand, my right arm around her waist. Her glass held in her right hand, her left arm around my neck, we swayed gently to the music.

Calm and intimate, just as I figured. There was no need for fancy clothes and an expensive meal. Right here in her house, sweaters and sweatpants on, hair tied up, and our favorite Moscato, we danced. This was perfection, a blend of content and bliss one could only strive for.

Gazing at her expression, surprising her with a small spin, was worth the wait.

“So, we skipped diner, and went straight to dancing. What’s our next deviation?” I ask her. I keep my voice quiet. I want her to know that my attention will not sway from her no matter what happens.

Aubrey flashed a wicked grin and stepped closer.

When she opened her mouth, I was startled by a harsh alarm blaring throughout the room.

I couldn’t describe the level of nausea I felt as heart pounded. I watched as Aubrey, her home, the music, and our dinner disappeared, replaced by a large room full of decorated tables. Guests in suits and dresses were everywhere, sitting with small plates of food or lining up at a buffet across the room from me. Disoriented, I try to steady my eyes as I see that some of these people were dancing in the middle of the room. The blaring alarm, as it turns out, happened to be a DJ playing music.

“Jenny! There you are!” calls out a familiar voice. One I knew so well, had just listened too moments ago.

Aubrey herself, standing by my table, her amber-brown eyes showing excitement to see me.

I wish I could have reciprocated. No, not when I finally gained my bearings and realized exactly where I was. Now, I can only give the slightest of smiles to Aubrey as she takes a seat next to me. In her hands were two wine glasses, half full of a deep red liquid. Wine, I knew that much, but it was not Moscato.

Not this time.

“What’s this?” I ask her, taking the smallest of sips. The bitter taste of a traditional sweet coiled around my taste buds, but not unpleasant either way.

“I know you prefer Moscato, but I have been wanting you to try this for weeks now!” Aubrey said, tipping back her own glass with practiced ease. Ease that told me she drank this wine far too often.

“Don’t you like it?” she asks, the brightness in her eyes as prominent as ever. Her eagerness for approval was not lost on me, nor was her forgetfulness.

It was saddening to know that Aubrey had me try this wine once before, months ago. I had given an opinion, one that conveyed my liking, but held no real interest in it. Aubrey forgetting was almost worse than knowing how Moscato would not be our thing anymore. No, it was no longer going to be an our anything. After tonight, Aubrey would begin her life with her new husband.

My fantasy, my dream date with Aubrey I had envisioned for years, would never happen.

Torn away with one simple object.

A glass of Merlot.