Winey Expectations

I had told myself if I go on this date that I would wear a little black dress, my favorite gold earrings, and red lipstick. A black dress because it’s slim looking and gold earrings because they shine stunningly in candlelight. And why the red lip you might ask? Well…it would match perfectly with my order of red wine. A glass of Merlot to be exact. That was the plan, anyway. But it was a plan that almost ruined everything.

Let me just say, I think wine says so much about someone. And for how I saw a date night in my head, I don’t think I could order white. It was never the type of wine I could picture myself having on a ‘nightly’ date. To me, white wine was for a date before sunset. I’m not really sure where that belief came from, but it had always been a little rule I’ve carried for some time. And as this date was scheduled for eight, a red was a set deal. Especially because I found red wine to be seductive, and alluring—and that’s what I wanted to be. And if you think about it, red wine is the perfect conduit for a first date. You see, red is a perfect conduit for many things, especially when it comes to romance. It has a way of enticing chemistry and bringing forth all those facets required to get to know someone—I mean c’mon, a heart can’t pump without red.

So, when the time had reached eight o’clock, I was sitting at a small table across from my date with just a dancing flame burning between us. I had made sure to turn my head once in a while so that my earrings would glisten in the light’s flicker. And as both of us waited patiently for our waiter to greet us at our table, I couldn’t help but indulge myself with all the ideas of how the night was going to ferment perfectly once we had our first sips…

“Thank you, again, for coming out tonight,” he said with a toothy smile.

He was nervous. I could tell by the way he showed me his teeth. He was showing me so many. They were white and very square. For that, I initially hid mine. But luckily, I think that worked better for me since it gave me a chance to really showcase my lipstick color which I had considered so precisely.

“Thank you for inviting me out,” I said back to him. I couldn’t help but lean in when I said it. He was so handsome.

“I’ll order us a bottle of wine, right?”

“Of course. Sounds perfect."

And in a matter of minutes, our waiter approached and broke both our flirtatious gazes before either of us could tire into gazes of any sort of crazy.

“Could I start you guys off with anything to drink?” the waiter leaned in.

“Oh, wine—would be lovely,” I insisted. I glanced up to the waiter’s pad and pen, touching my chin to my shoulder.

“Perfect, and what glasses of wine would you like?” the waiter turned his face to each of us.

“We’re actually going to order a bottle,” my date said. His eyes locked on mine, “But—uh, we didn’t get a chance to discuss what kind…perhaps a bottle of…I don’t know, Chardonnay?”

Oh no—, I thought. All I could do was pursed my red lips like a budding flower. Why not a red? I thought again. We definitely should have discussed our choice…I should say something.

As I tried to stop my face from looking disappointed, my thoughts began to form like thorns in my mind. I couldn’t believe my little rule was about to be broken—let alone make me this bitter. He didn’t even ask if I’d prefer red—he just went straight to white. My outfit, my lipstick—the mood. Say something or your date will be ruined, my pricky thoughts said.

“How’s that? Or we could go with something else?” he asked.

His beady eyes were darting across the linen surface of our empty table when sudden desperation had fallen over him. His face seemed to yearn for the proper words to break my own dubious expressions. So as quickly as I could at that moment, I tried to chip away the prickly thorns within me and I went for it.

“That sounds—um, well…”

But I fumbled, I couldn’t lie. The waiter was now staring at me, knowing I should probably make a call. And now I was feeling pressured by my own expectations.

“Oh, maybe something else,” I said, flashing him a smile.

Great—now I’m doing the nervous teeth-thing that he did, my mind went more. And at that point, my knees were knocking from underneath the table. Pick a red, pick a red, I wanted to say.

“Okay, maybe a bottle of Pinot Grigio?” he shrugged casually with his hands to the glowing air between us, “Or, Moscato maybe?”

“Not a white—” I pushed forward, “how about a red if that’s okay…”

“Oh…a red…okay, yeah. Which one?”

He then glanced at the waiter with more nerves than ever. God, I had felt terrible at that point. I could feel the date was spinning down. Don’t let it—don’t let it, I thought on, make it good.

“Merlot—” I blurted.

“A bottle of Merlot?” the waiter’s eyes darted from me to him.

“Merlot, that…sounds great,” my date said, shooting his eyes down to his shirt.

“Alright—a bottle of Merlot,” the waiter repeated with a soft huff and quickly went off.

The waiter clearly had no patience for the dilemma, which I understood completely. And before my date had turned back to face me, he flashed the most unimpressed smile as if the whole restaurant was losing its taste. And during our brief wait, all I could recall was his gold watch glistening before me as he anxiously combed his hair back. I remember how the watch suited his vanilla-colored shirt perfectly against his sun-kissed skin. And there soon after, the red wine had come, and we were left alone once again with what felt had become the conduit of my own undoing…

“Well—” My date picked up his glass and examined it closely, giving it a swirl.

I could see a part of his face magnified through the glassy bulb as the red wine clashed in front of him. And just as I was about to apologize for pushing us away from his choices, he made the most dry-toned statement that neither a red nor a white could compare…

“I think white wine would have looked better with this shirt; don’t you think?”

He held a poker-faced expression that made me think he wasn’t joking, but then he laughed. Although, I still wasn’t sure. However, in that brief pause, I also began to laugh—rather freely—and I was thankful for that because I realized we were so similar. And as I thought about it, maybe he had already known this, which was why this date even happened in the first place.

“Oh my god—that’s why I wanted red. To match my lipstick,” I said, giggling, “I’m so sorry. I had it all planned in my head. I had—"

“—Ah!” he scooted his chair in beamingly, “Makes sense. It does match you really well. But any wine would have looked great next to you. You’re stunning.”

His words poured out so smoothly, and it was then he gave me the most alluring wink. He was so nice, actually, too nice. And somehow both our nerves were salvaged from all expectations that moment on, especially once we had clinked our glasses with another good laugh and took our first sips.

And I must say, that moment was like looking in a mirror—or as it was, like looking through a glass of tasty Merlot. How could I have let such an expectation seep into my bloodstream like that? So, I dropped that stupid rule from that moment on—and when our next nightly date occurred, which happened several days later, I wore another black dress, my same gold earrings, and that red lipstick. And whether the wine was red or white, it didn’t matter anymore. Color was never the conduit; for it was always, simply, the wine.