Red, White, and Fur

“Is the wine okay?”

The words wafted over my brain without much effect. I kept staring into the blonde contents of the glass, zoning out to the shimmer of refraction. My few actively firing synapses were prodding my brain with the question of what the hell I was doing in this upscale bar, and at this hour, and on a Tuesday, no less. My eyes drifted up from the glass to the person across from me.

Paul, that was his name. Paul, who was an inch or two shy of what he’d said on his profile. Height wasn’t an issue, but the inaccuracy irked me. It seemed like an arbitrary fib that hinted at insecurity. Otherwise, he seemed nice enough; then again, I reflected, my instincts weren’t necessarily to be trusted. I’d been working from home for over a year, and I hadn’t been on a date in almost two. For all I knew, he could be one of those secret lizard people my nephew had told me about over Zoom. At least I knew he’d been somewhat honest on his profile; he looked a lot like his picture, and a quick glance at his ID suggested that his name really was Paul. He also loved nature documentaries, which I knew from his bio, but mostly from the last half hour of his one-sided narrative about his five absolute favorites.

I slowly realized that he’d asked me a question.

“Whuh?”

“The wine. Is it okay?”

My cerebellum reluctantly engaged with my neck muscles, and I nodded my head. He’d picked a sauvignon blanc of some vintage that he’d been quite enthusiastic about, and I wasn’t motivated to argue. White wine wasn’t really in my wheelhouse, but I’d gone off red since The Incident.

The truth was, this wasn’t my first date in almost two years. There had been one other, around three months ago. An unexpected message had popped up on a dating profile I’d long since forgotten, and I’d been talked into responding by well-meaning friends. His name was Tim, and he claimed to be an outdoorsy, laid-back animal lover. Now usually, when I see those generically “likeable” descriptors on a profile, I’ll set up the first date as a test. For “outdoorsy” it’s often a twenty-mile hike, but this time I decided to be gentle. For Tim, the self-professed animal lover, I chose a cat café.

Tim had arrived at the café with a crisp, pure-white shirt and a rather stiff bearing. In a break from his online moniker, he introduced himself as Timothy, putting near-equal emphasis on each syllable. Tim-Oh-Thee. The delivery suggested that each section of the name had been weighed, measured, and placed in a bespoke box for safekeeping. A warning bell trilled in my mind, but I quashed it with a reminder that I hadn’t met anyone new in a while. Furthermore, a year of true crime podcasts had stoked my paranoia that all new people were potential murderers, and despite his unnaturally neat appearance, my over-enunciating date had yet to stab or bite anyone. I remained cautiously optimistic.

Prior to our hour-long session in the cat room, we waited in the bar and perused the menu of drinks. The café boasted an espresso bar, as well as a limited selection of beer and wine. Tim-Oh-Thee ordered a highly-recommended local IPA; I was briefly tempted by the $12 bottomless “meow-mosas” but opted for a single, moderately-sized serving of merlot instead. Our group was allowed to adjourn into the cat room, and that’s when the rendezvous rerouted from a vague West-Southwesterly direction to absolute due South.

It became clear, soon after we sat at the tiny, decorative table, that Tim-Oh-Thee did not care for cats. His frequent, forceful sniffs also piqued suspicion that he might be allergic, but that made his willingness to come to a cat haven for our date even more impressive. Not to be outdone by his tenacity--or perhaps, desperation--I made adamant small talk while ignoring the way he recoiled every time a cat wandered within five feet of our table. As we forged valiantly on with the date, he softened a bit under a polite barrage of trivial questions. The afternoon seemed to be slowly veering out of Complete Disaster territory. That is, until Pietro took notice of us.

Pietro was a fluffy orange nightmare who weighed at least 20 pounds. He had one eye and a snaggle tooth, and an apparent disposition for introducing himself abruptly to people he speculated might like to give him a head scratch. He had been lounging on the lowest tier of a cat tree, draped in leisurely bliss like a classical portrait of a raging hedonist, when my head-scratching appendages caught his eye. Unfortunately, they were attached to the hand that was still holding a flimsy plastic glass half-full of merlot.

So, as I casually plied Tim-Oh-Thee for his thoughts on the current weather, the forehead of an attention-seeking ginger missile hit the back of my drinking hand.

Several things happened in quick succession. My clenching fingers crushed the thin plastic. The force of the shattering cup, added to the velocity of hand and head, launched the remaining merlot across Tim-Oh-Thee’s snow-white ensemble in a ruby arc resembling arterial spray. In a bemused state of limbo, which would soon turn to active horror, I fixated on the sullied shirt as it vaulted into the air on a man spewing a barely coherent stream of obscenities. The other patrons balked as cats scattered in every direction, and at least one small child had to be led from the room in hysterics. The lightweight table toppled across the floor as my swearing, sniffling, and now indelibly-stained date stormed out of the café. I sat frozen at my table-less chair, holding the dripping remains of a plastic cup, unsure whether to stay and attempt reparations or flee quickly in hopes that no one would recognize me on my next visit. In desperation, I looked down at my wine-drenched hand.

I snapped out of my reverie. Paul had moved on to a favorable critique of his seventh favorite doc--or perhaps, it was still the fourth. Remembering Pietro, Destroyer of Wine Vessels, I gripped my intact stemware a bit tighter. As Paul droned on, I considered what life would be like with a Paul.

Paul seemed decent, based on our interaction so far. He was reasonably pleasant, intelligent, and based on his taste in films, he cared about the plight of the bees. He was no Tim-Oh-Thee. On paper, calm, conscientious Paul qualified as a fine potential partner. But, as he dipped into yet more commentary on yet another award-winning documentary while ordering yet another bottle of white whatever from a specific year, I tried to imagine him on a chill evening at my place. Paul, in goofy pajamas, watching nostalgic cartoons and drinking cheap whisky. It was hard to imagine.

Later that night, as I pulled on a fluffy purple dragon onesie and shuffled into my kitchen to pour myself a drink, I reflected on my unfair judgement of Paul and his highbrow un-fun-ness. Maybe Paul had leaned into wine knowledge and socially-conscious television trivia to be impressive. Maybe Paul could have hung with jammies and inexpensive brown liquor.

Then again, maybe I was happier doing my own thing until someone presented a really, really compelling case that they’d be a worthy partner in crime, or at least, relaxation. I flopped onto the couch, flapping my silly felted dragon wings, and picked up the TV remote.

“Well, buddy, seems like it’s just you and me again.”

Pietro hopped up onto the back of the couch, his favorite perch since I’d brought him home, and slunk my way as I flipped channels. Paul had eventually taken a break from doc-commentary to mention that he didn’t care for cats, and the date had politely ended a half-hour later. It was wrong of me to assume, I reminded myself as I took a bracing swig, but if I had to place a wager, I’d still bet Paul couldn’t hang. Pietro, on the other hand, seemed to love an evening of old cartoons and a soft, onesie-laden lap, and he didn’t pontificate about cinema. He was proving to be, I dared say, an ideal companion. As I settled on a channel airing silly shapes in the brightest of colors, I scratched him behind the ears. He purred, and took a lazy swipe at my glass.