Two Bottles

“Two bottles, Mr. Rain?” Jerr packed each Merlot into its own slender, black gift-bag. Craig remembered the blurb he had read online: A simple kind of class for an unassuming wine. “Don’t you think it’s a bit much for a first date?”

“I’m feeling hopeful.” Craig’s hands shook a little as he pushed his card into the reader. Are my knuckles getting knobbly? “And if it doesn’t go well, then I’ll have an extra bottle for myself.”

“In my experience, you’ll know if she goes for a second glass.” Jerr stuffed brick red tissue paper into one bag and white into another. “So maybe you’ll have a bottle and a half for yourself.”

“Thanks, Jerr, but you’re a kid.”

“No. I’m your sommelier. Do you want your usual Malbec too? Maybe a whole box, just in case?”

“Piss off. Just the Merlot. I’m feeling hopeful.” For a second, Craig wondered if hope assumed anything—if it had expectations. He couldn’t remember what that was like. The card reader beeped; he put his card back into his wallet.

“Good luck, Mr. Rain.” And Craig was out the door.

Twenty minutes to get back home. One hour to finish the meal prep and pack up. Thirty minutes for a quick shower, fresh shave, and getting dressed. He had already picked out his clothes. Fifteen minutes to get to the park, but November 7 and it’s still damn hot. Maybe he should get there earlier to scout the best picnic table—something right by the river? He had heard off-hand about an algae bloom in the lake upstream. What if the river stank today?

The talk-radio was too much, so he drove in silence, his thumb tapping the wheel the whole time.

He pulled into his complex, sat for a moment, staring at the blank retaining wall, then took his phone off Drive Mode. It dinged an alert from work: You ready? Jeannette had sent a text via the remote office app. Did you get that Merlot Kara likes?

Got it. Ready, he replied. His hand tremored a bit.

She’ll meet you there. You got this!

Inside, his hovel apartment was clean again. The smell of vanilla-scented wood polish hit him strong when he entered—it was the smell of Alicia’s Saturday ritual, back when they’d had a house, when they were still happy. He had kept using that polish. He flung open the windows and porch door for a cross-breeze.

In the kitchen, the Merlot went into the fridge. They should be at temp, 65 degrees, for uncorking—two hours. He preheated the oven for the fingerling potatoes. This damn oven takes too long. He hadn’t factored that into his timetable. It’ll be fine. The blueberries, jalapeno and apple juice went into a sauce pot over medium. Don’t jack up the heat—a mistake he always made.

Chef Marcous used to get onto him about that. Alicia mocked Chef behind his back while he drunkenly berated Craig—all for Craig’s amusement. She didn’t care if the customers saw. The vanilla polish lingered.

The pancetta into the pan, medium heat. Let it do its thing. Then the shallots and mushrooms, and then the bok choy just to save time. Medium-high won’t hurt, but he needed the white Corningware ready for plating. He set it out. His Tupperware wouldn’t do so he bought these fancy, white storage containers, just for this.

Alicia had taken the nice kitchen stuff when she left. He had begun to protest, but she told him, you’re just going to revert to your bachelor ways. It was a final cut to remind him of what he had done. She was almost right—Tupperware was good enough for him.

The potatoes finally went into the oven—30 minutes. The pan for the duck breast was heating. He watched the thin layer of oil, waiting for the shimmer. Rosemary and thyme in the vanilla air. That time he took her to the Renaissance Fair. She told him she loved him, and he said he loved her too. He meant it, he had thought. Did I, though?

The smell of burn. The edges of the pancetta were blackening. He killed the heat, slid the pan off the burner, nearly knocking off the blueberry sauce. Dammit. He stirred the bright greens and soft brown mushrooms… but the charred pancetta. The green was going transparent. Was it salvageable? Oak-aged barrels. A bit of char might accentuate. Enough. Maybe?

Acrid, hot, dried corn—the oil. Smoke drifted off the duck pan. No. Dammit. He turned the heat down. It will have to do. Give it a second. The herb-crusted duck waited. Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. He braced himself against the kitchen counter.

No. Start over after a shower. The oil went down the drain in a recriminating sizzle.

In the bathroom, he waited for the warm water. Little hairs and months of inexplicable debris were gathered around the base of the toilet. He wiped them up with a wad of toilet paper. The shower roiled steam. There were streaks of debris. It’ll do. The likelihood that it would matter had become remote.

He took longer in the shower than he had intended, lulled and lost. He thought to skip the shave but knew he would feel better if he did.

He felt the smoothness of his neck as he soothed in the lavender after-shave. I can’t really smell it, Alicia had said. But that’s good. It means it’s already a part of you, lavender. So, he had stuck with it.

Two shirts laid out on the bed. One: a white short-sleeved button-up. It was plain but crisp and it showed off the arms he had been working on while he had nothing better to do. He had to suck it in for the buttons. The other: long-sleeve, purple and burgundy paisley print, and he could breathe in it. It had survived the purges, though he hadn’t worn it in years. It’s young and fresh. Roll up the sleeves, Alicia had said. But maybe it was time to put that aside. Why pretend anymore?

White and crisp, he stepped back to the duck pan, concentrating on the shimmer. There it was. He lowered the two breasts onto the pan. Waited. The blueberry sauce was perfect. He thought to reheat the bok choy but didn’t want to risk the burn so he plated. The hot duck and potatoes will warm it back up. The potatoes came out of the oven. He plated them too—all in easy, half-remembered movements that still felt like love.

He flipped the duck and there it was, a little crackle of oil. It popped onto his shirt and began the slow seep of discoloration. He waited, abject. It should be done, he thought without checking.

Onto the cutting board—quarter inch slices; then onto the beds of bok choy. Two plates. Good enough? He didn’t know. He sealed the lids and put the containers into the thermal bag then into the wicker basket. He stacked the red-checkered tablecloth as extra heat-padding. He bought them all just for this.

At least the crèmes brûlées would be good. He had always excelled at those. He had even bought a torch and packed a ramekin of turbinado to brûlée table-side, topping with raspberries in sauce. He had thought to bake them day-of so that the vanilla bean would linger on his fingers if he should get to touch her face. But time was too much now. There was too much of it behind him and not enough ahead. So, the crèmes brûlées were prepped yesterday and went straight into the basket, then the torch and plastic glasses. The two Merlots were chilled. At least one would be at temp by the time it came to uncork.

He changed shirts, rolled up the sleeves, and he was off to the park. The blueberry sauce congealed on the stove.

Children were everywhere; dogs in the dog park; parents and masters chit-chatting, masked and casual, like they had no clue that everything was wrong. The sun had begun it’s setting on the ridges of pine-silhouettes across the river.

A table was free, right by the water. Its only occupants were two little blackbirds dancing around each other. Everything smelled like fresh-cut grass. There’s that at least.

He unpacked: spread the cloth onto the table, laid out the two Corningwares and the wrapped silverware; stacked the crèmes brûlées at the edge with the sugar and raspberries and torch; glasses, wine key and one gift-bag of Merlot, brick red. The other was in his car, just in case. All set. He began his rehearsal:

“Hey.” No. “Hello.” No. “Hi. I’m Craig.” Keep an open face. Smile with your teeth.

“I’m Kara. Nice to meet you.” A kiss on the cheek? A quick hug? A handshake? Let her lead. “Oh, this is my favorite,” she would say as he presented the wine.

“Yeah. I really like it. Honestly, I haven’t tried it. Jeanette said it was your favorite. The duck and blueberry sauce will go well with it though, I think. I used to cook, fine dining. It was a good place. I learned a lot.”

Maybe she would be brave. “Jeanette said you had a wife. She died?”

“Yeah. She died. I mean, we were divorced before that, but she died.” Don’t say too much too soon.

“I’m sorry,” She might say.

“No. It was a long time ago.”

“What have you been doing since then?”

“Oh, nothing. Just work.” Years and years of just work. And he would smile, discreetly feigned but she would catch it with a prompting look. Maybe she would touch his hand. He hadn’t been touched in years. “I mean, I was too young.” But if she started down this path, he wasn’t sure what would come out. “I was too young. I messed it up so bad. I hurt her more than we could bear.”

“What did you do?”

“Don’t ask.” Please don’t ask. She would respect the request so he could say it, at least a part of it. “I thought I could make it up to her, even after the divorce. But I didn’t get the chance. There’s just work.” She would recognize him and she wouldn’t ask again, not for a long time. But when she did, it would be because she loved him beyond fault.

“I don’t want to do that to you. I think I’ve learned. I don’t know. I’m sorry.” But at that point it would be too much to stop.

“No. It’s fine. We can start over. That’s why I’m here too.” She would smile and tell him all about the mistakes that led her to him.

It was too much to hope for. The children and the dogs and the masked conversations clattered at him while the sun lurched behind the pines. It shimmered on the brown, dirty water washing out to sea a thousand miles away. His thumb chattered against the Merlot bottle in his hands. His knee shook. His back quaked at every closed car door as the park turned silent.

Hushed footsteps in the grass. An unknown voice at his back. “This is a good place. I like it.”