The Worst Date, To Date...

I push open the front door and am greeted by a pleasant warmth that drags me out of the night’s cold blizzard. The sounds of a live six-man brass band playing soft Jazz combined with a familiar buzz of busy humming restaurant sends me into a quick state of disorientation. Confronted and confused, I divert my gaze from the ground up to the front host who smirks, placing a light touch on my hip and escorts me through the candle-lit tables whereby couples laugh and swoon over a degustation meal.

Guiding me through the endless sea of unfamiliar faces, I can’t help but guess who it is I will be accompanying. It is through the unacquainted help of online dating; a quick swipe and slide into a private chat that has led to this moment; optimum awkwardness and an undeniable fear for what the next couple of hours will entail.

He doesn’t stand to greet me, rather, invites me to the table through a singular swift hand gesture and a subtle smirk. He sits stationary, swivelling a glass amongst his slim fingers. The deep red substance pivoting in rhythm with the lyrics he speaks. Each breath drawn permeates the Italian grape that lays swiftly on his top lip. Upsold by the fine gentleman who pledged his service to our table for the night; the most expensive grape from the pick none the less.

A frankly futile face stares across from me, reciting hymns or prayers or something that once, left the safety of his lips becomes muffled by the restaurant noise. I’d like to think it is some sort of religious sacrament. Lips gliding promptly in a harmonised choreography that systematically beats in sync with my abnormally fast heartbeat.

He can sense my uneasiness and effortlessly reaches for what I think is my shaky hands, but soon discover is another one of those stale complimentary loaves that have been sitting stagnant in the copper basket between us. How could I have been such a fool to believe my presence should override an oven-warm- twice-baked crusty sourdough bun, well, so they claim.

“Madame?”

I divert my gaze up from my shaky hands and stare blankly into the eyes of our loyal waiter, who holds forward the $250 bottle of Merlot. A kind gesture hard to dismiss, yet this continuity has left me feeling a little tipsy.

I nod politely and drag my chalice across the freshly pressed white tablecloth in hopes to ease his reach. Catching on one of the spoons of my six-piece dining set, my glass rolls along the surface of its rounded stem. Once then twice. Shock overriding his face as the glass dances between us. A third and finally, falls.

The restaurant goes silent as a loud gasp escapes my pressed lips. I begin to see red. Red bouncing off the fine China dinner plates, onto the French linen cloth and trickles down the rounded edge of the table. Time slows as I watch each solitary droplet stain a bright scarlet tone amongst the linen cloth. His once cream suit paints covered in the fine Italian grape that I can taste between each over drawn breath.

Before I can even fathom the thought of a sincere apology, he is halfway out the door. So, I sit and let the blood pump back through my veins. Our waiter offers a warm smile and holds forth the remaining of the exorbitant grape.

“This bottle is on us…”