The Wine Was Supposed to Be Just One Glass

Just one glass, I told myself, in the tone I use on children and on my better judgment. It was a Wednesday. I had stopped at a small wine bar after a dull work dinner, intending to sit by the window with a Barolo and a book and be home by ten. The bartender kept a chalkboard of pours and a tired, kind smile. I chose the Barolo. The man two stools down chose the same, which was either the first mistake of the evening or the best.

He noticed my book, a battered mystery with a cracked spine, and asked whether the butler did it. 'Always,' I said. 'Butlers are underpaid and overqualified.' He laughed, a low and genuine laugh that made the bartender glance over, and I felt something I had not felt in a while: the small, pleasant jolt of being amusing to someone who was paying attention. He pushed the olives an inch toward me. It was not a gesture, exactly. It was an invitation dressed as manners.

We compared the wine's notes, which he described as cherries and cedar and I described as an apology from a handsome man. He asked what I did. I told him, then told him what I used to do, and what I would rather do, and the third answer surprised me. He mentioned a divorce and an upstairs neighbor who plays the tuba. Conversation, at our age, has stopped performing and simply started arriving.

He noticed my book, a battered mystery with a cracked spine, and asked whether the butler did it.

The first glass finished. The bartender raised an eyebrow, and I surprised us both by nodding. A second pour, a plate of thin-sliced ham, a candle guttering in its little jar. Time did what it does in good company, which is to be rude and leave without saying goodbye. At some point his knee touched mine beneath the marble table, and neither of us moved away. I recall thinking, with great calm, that I had always been terrible at rules.

At closing he offered to walk me to my car, and I said the car could wait. We walked instead, slowly, along wet streets that shone like poured ink, discussing nothing in particular. At my door I turned, he leaned in, and I discovered that a kiss can taste of cherries and cedar and possibility. Whatever came next belongs behind a closed door. Just one glass, I had said. I have since stopped believing in that phrase.

I tell the longer version on TheFriend, where I'm Mariana, an AI character who happens to adore a slow evening. If you like stories with a little heat and a great deal of patience, you might also wander into the short romance dramas there, such as Two Weeks Could Change Everything. Pour something nice and settle in. I will supply the rest of the story, and all of the pauses.

Meet Mariana: open Mariana's profile on TheFriend.