Flash Fiction | You Had Me At Merlot

My friend Gwen decided it would be fun to have a girls’ night out on the town at a local wine bar since we’ve been locked inside our houses for the last year. Wine bars aren’t typically my scene because I’m more of a hard seltzer on a boat kind of girl. My palate isn’t what one would call, refined. 

Mostly, I was just happy to get out into the world again, and regain some social skills. Could I even hold a conversation that wasn’t talking into a screen anymore? Was I completely feral by now? What would I talk about? The exciting trips from my couch to the fridge? Do I lead with the new trivia item that I have now seen at least 3,000 episodes of ‘The Office’? 

What if a guy talked to me? I hadn’t been on a date in over a year, either. I tried to do virtual dates to see if anything stuck, but guys are even more weird virtually than in person. We won’t even talk about the guy who decided to send me his finest nudes while I was sharing my screen during a presentation at work. Fun stuff. 

Anyway, here I was applying makeup and doing my hair about to re-enter society. I decided to just have an ‘it is what it is’ attitude, and not take myself too seriously. My mother used to always tell me, “Nobody thinks about you as much as you think about yourself,” so I reminded myself that I wasn’t the only one locked in my house for the better part of a year. 

“Adventure awaits,” I said to myself as I walked out the door. 

***

The night was warm as I sipped chardonnay with my girlfriends on the balcony of the wine bar that overlooked the river. The city below was bustling again, and except for our masks on the table, the world felt relatively normal again. 

For about an hour now, I had been occasionally locking eyes with a guy at the other end of the balcony sitting with a couple of people. He was your typical tall, dark, and handsome type, with salt and pepper hair at his temples, and to be honest, I wouldn’t be mad if he wanted to come say hello or ask me for my number. Far be it for me to avoid hitting a home run at my first at bat. Ooooh a baseball analogy. I’ll have to use that one later. 

After we were sufficiently tipsy and ready to head to our next destination, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, and there he was.

“Looks like you and your friends are about to head out,” he said. 

“Yeah,” I replied, probably looking like a deer in headlights, “I think we’re heading down to Onyx for some food, and of course more drinks, if you and your friends want to join us.” Hey, I may be like Nell reemerging from the woods, but I still knew how to shoot my shot. 

“Sounds fun, but I have an early day tomorrow, so I’m gonna pack it in. I’m Roger, by the way,” he said offering his elbow for our new culturally acceptable greeting of the ‘bump’. 

I tapped his elbow with mine. Not gonna lie, the tiny bit of human contact sent surges of electricity through my body as if he had grabbed me and kissed me. 

“Nice to meet you, Roger. I’m Emily.” 

“Well Emily, if you’re interested, I’d like to take you out on a proper date and get to know you better. How does this Friday sound?” 

Sounds like I’m rounding the bases, “I think I can do that. Here, let me give you my number.” 

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said as he fished something out of his pocket. 

Roger held out a wine cork, “Take this. It will tell you everything you need to know about Friday. I’ll see you at seven.” 

I took the cork more confused than ever, “I don’t understand.” 

He winked at me, “I’ll see you at seven on Friday, Emily,” then he walked off and rejoined his friends as they exited the balcony. 

“Ooooooh!” the collective call of my girlfriends rang out. 

“Emily just scored!” My friend Erica yelled. 

“But did I?” I asked, “I only know his first name, and he handed me a wine cork after he asked me out on a date this Friday. He said it would tell me everything I would need to know, and he’d see me at seven this Friday.” 

“Oh great, so he’s a serial killer,” Tiffany shrugged, “Well, bullet dodged, I guess.” 

“Oh, c’mon, Tiff. Not everything is an episode of ‘Criminal Minds’,” Erica said rolling her eyes. 

“No, but this is pretty much how every ‘Dateline’ episode starts,” Gwen mused.  

“Actually, I think it’s kind of romantic,” I said, “A little bit of mystery is fun. It’s not like he has my phone number or anything. Let’s see if we can try to solve the puzzle and have a little fun. If it gets weird, I’ll bail. I promise.” 

Tiffany took the cork out of my hand and examined it, then passed it to Erica who also put it under deep forensic examination, “Ok, I’m in.” 

For the rest of the night, we tried to crack the case, which was hard for me since I don’t know anything about wine. I knew one thing and one thing only… it was from a bottle of Merlot. The sommelier from the wine bar was able to tell us that by smelling it, however it wasn’t a vintage they had on hand. He was able to tell us that Merlot was one of the easiest wines to pair with food, which I guess is good knowledge for future use, but nothing that helped me now. 

So the only thing left to do at that point was to  let the internet play Nancy Drew. Buzzed from my night out, I was determined to figure this out before the sun came up in a few hours. The cork said ‘Balsamic,’ so I typed ‘Balsamic-Merlot-Roger.’ 

My eyes nearly fell out of my head when the search results came up. Roger Balsamic Merlot, was none other than Roger McManus, proprietor of Balsamic, a super fancy restaurant on the other side of town with their own brand of Merlot since every dish incorporated the wine. Sorry Tiffany, no serial killer vibes detected. And if he was, at least I would score a great meal at a place that had a six month waiting list on my way out. 

It felt like three years before Friday came around, but at seven o’clock I left my car with the valet at Balsamic. The place was bustling, and the smells were intoxicating. I announced myself to the hostess, and she nodded knowingly and whisked me back to a private dining room at the back of the restaurant. 

When I entered, Roger was sitting smiling with a glass of merlot in his hand. The room was absolutely beautiful with candles lit, and gorgeous nibbles on the table. Forget the homerun analogy, this was a grand slam. 

“Ah, Emily, so glad you could make our first date,” he said standing up to greet me, and pull out a chair for me, “I’m glad you thought me worthy of the challenge.” 

“I’m glad I did, too. Looks like this is about to be an unforgettable night.” 

The wine flowed, the company was amazing, and the food was out of this world. The internet also told me that Merlot drinkers were deep and passionate lovers. 

I’ll leave that up to your imagination.