The Memory in Merlot

I was early, as usual. It's a habit of mine, probably devolved to avoid disappointing people, then again, I don't necessarily aim to impress anyone, so I should throw that one out the window. The awkwardness began to creep in on me, my body temperature rose slightly, and it felt like all the eyes in the restaurant were on me. "I got Stood up" is the thought that replays in my mind over and over. Why did I even agree to this date, especially a blind date? As the overwhelming awkwardness of sitting alone starts to take over, here walks in a stunning woman. She seems to be in her mid-twenties, maybe a few inches over 5 feet tall, and has the most picture-perfect red hair I have ever seen. It is long, full, wavy, and close to orange, but my eyes were trying to convince my brain it was red. Right away, I knew she had a unique quality that I have never seen before, which has me excited but also nervous. She sat down, and my anxiety began to climb as I realized I should have pulled the chair out for her. I feel like I already failed the first test. I stuck out my hand to shake hers as I said, "you look great" "Oh, thank you!" She responds, "I'm Amy, by the way," Benny, I say. The next few minutes are filled with meaningless small talk; she doesn't like the city, her dog loves walks, and she's moving to Miami if the weather doesn't get better. The waiter came by and asked what we wanted to have to drink. Amy responded, "a glass of merlot, please." And you, sir, asked the waiter. In the middle of asking for just a glass of water, Amy interrupts and says, "make that two glasses of merlot." She smiles at me, unaware that I am not very fond of alcohol, but I gave her the most genuine smile I could so I didn't seem rude. As the night went on, we talked a lot and had a great dinner. I learned where Amy went to school and how she is now a chiropractor, along with how she and her mom are practically best friends. "Are you not going to drink your wine?" Amy asked. I don't like to drink, but I also don't want to seem rude, or like I am some sort of a recovering alcoholic, so I play dumb and say, "oh my goodness, I totally blanked out and forgot it was here," Amy laughed it off and so did I as I took my first sip of the Merlot. "It's not bad, hey?" she asked. "No, it is excellent!" I responded. We both ended up having a few more glasses of Merlot and decided to order dessert. "So, are you close with your family?" Amy asks. We had been talking about her life the whole night, and I was quite pleased that she had not asked many questions until now. "Um, not so much. It was mainly just my mother and me while I was growing up. "My dad was out of the picture early on, so no, not really." As Amy asked if I am still in touch with my mother, I began to zone out. I focused on her hand. She was twirling her glass which made the wine dance around the bottom of the glass. I felt like I was in a trance when I blurted out, "Merlot was my mother's drink of choice; she would twirl her glass around her fingers when the wine was low just like that." Amy was caught off guard and didn't reply as I remained focused on her glass. Unlike my date, my mother didn't ever do that with her wine when making small talk. She would do that after my father got home. I don't remember much about my dad except a blurry image of him. He had a thick beard that had equal amounts of black and grey hairs in it. I know he liked to get mad though, yelling and throwing things around the kitchen, and I also know if my mom were in his way, she would get thrown around too. I remember her eyes and what fear looked like when he would throw her to the ground onto the cold tile floor. With sadness, she would look over at me, disappointed that she couldn't stop me from seeing what was happening. Once the yelling would stop, and my angry bearded father would disappear, my mom would get up and go into the cabinet for a bottle of wine. It was always a merlot that she would drink after incidents like this. She would pour herself a glass of the dark red wine and fill it nearly to the rim. She would drink, and when it was near empty, she would twirl the glass with her fingers, except it was not a smooth motion like Amy. Her hand would still be shaking, and the cuts on her hand would drip blood that was a much brighter red than what was in her glass. I will never forget how frightened my mother was. What that did to her, and that damn shake in her hand. I looked up at Amy, and her hand was steady. She isn't traumatized; she's not in pain, she is pure and innocent, but maybe I'm not. That was my father that did those horrendous things to the woman he was supposed to love and protect. Is that inside me? Am I capable of doing that to her? "I'm sorry," I uttered to Amy after snapping out of my aimless stare. "For what?" she asked, "I have to go." "You are great and did nothing wrong, and I am sorry for this. I really am." I threw down more than enough cash for the bill and hurried out of the restaurant into the cold, windy night. I feel awful, but here I am, running away from good people. All I know is that my father was a monster, and maybe some of that monster is hiding inside of me, waiting to get out, waiting to cause damage to anything good. But I will not let that happen. If that means avoiding connections with people I want to care about, then so be it. Because my monster will stay buried, I will hammer it down with 6-inch nails and pour concrete over it, whatever it takes. My monster will not see the light of day.