The Night We Had a Merlot

It was raining gently, and I was preoccupied with my problems of work, school, and money; the usual suspects of so many of our generation. I hurried to catch the elevator in my apartment building as the doors were closing, and luckily, she was there to hold them. I was consumed with the letters in my hand and failed at first to notice her.

“8th floor,” I said without looking up.

She stared at me with awe and said it too was her floor. That is when I noticed her for the first time and never could understand how I hadn’t noticed her before. We chatted briefly, and she invited me over for a glass of wine later that night.

I had just showered and was getting ready to head over. I nervously knocked on her door, and when it opened the scents of a freshly cooked dinner wafted into the hallway. She invited me in and asked if I would like a glass of Merlot.

It was a favourite of hers, that dark coloured wine. She informed me she had to write up a review for her work which required extensive tasting and thought it would be fun to share with me. She worked at an upscale wine import store in a trendy market down by the water. I was finishing up school and was working on getting prepared for work on an upcoming federal election. The encounter had provided me with a brief respite from my current worries.

She poured a glass for me and then her and asked me what I smelled, the notes I picked up on. I was paralyzed in how to respond. She looked intently at me with those hazel eyes with her chin perched on hand, leaning her elbow on the table, waiting for my answer. A vision of beauty I had been ignorant of because of my own self-involvement in my own life.

“spicy plums?”

She smiled and laughed a little and brushed the hair over her ear. She swirled the glass, and after watching intently, took a sip.

“what do you taste?”

I paused, thinking if I misspoke, I would lose her respect for good, as I had quickly realized I was not of the cultured class she apparently belonged. How does one describe a wine, I thought.

“Old pipe tobacco, but the good stuff.”

She threw her head back and a joyous laughter from a comfortable place came over her. She settled back and a happy demeanour came over her.

“Sorry, but that is very precise. Have you had this one before?”

“No, but I do know my old pipe tobacco”

She laughed again and smiled, took my hand, and looked intently into my eyes. Those eyes, those hazel eyes which stared with such deep intent on knowing who I was, captured me. I was stunned, not with fear in the traditional sense, but awestruck that another could be so in tune with me. She looked at me with a purpose, and we were captivated, lost in each other’s gaze. I had never known another to see me in such a way, and I believed at that time she had felt the same. We simultaneously broke eye contact. I, looking back at my glass, and she back to the bottle to read the label to me. Still holding hands as her thumb caressed mine, she gripped my hand firmly.

“It’s a merlot, my favourite.”

“Mine as well”

She turned her gaze back to me, took a deep inhale, and on the exhale smiled. I knew she too felt what I had felt. We had happened upon each other, a matter of luck to find another in a time and place. She swirled her glass and said she needed to write before she forgot what the initial notes were. I grinned, nodded, and said I understood. She poured us another glass and began her write up of her notes of the wine, still holding my hand, still smiling, and still locked in each other.

We spent the night together, talking and fully captured with one another. We were lost in our conversation, lost in each other, and brought together by a love of Merlot.