“That is a complicated delivery.”
The bartender says, “He said you should taste it if you are serious about the beans.”
I look at the glass, then at her. “Did he?”
The bartender says, “He did.”
“Is that supposed to make sense?”
The bartender looks toward the bar, then back at me.
“With him, sometimes later.”
That’s not helpful at all. I pick up the glass. The wine is red, lighter than I expect, bright at the rim. I smell cherry, earth, pepper, something floral. I taste it. Then I understand.
The warm white beans had oil, herbs, a little lemon, enough creaminess to make the acid in my first wine feel slightly too sharp by the third bite. This red softens the dish without flattening it. It makes the herbs quieter and the olive oil rounder. It is exactly right, which is irritating.
I look at him.
He is already looking at me now.
I lift the glass by half an inch.
Not a toast.
Not thanks.
Acknowledgment.
His mouth curves.
The bartender returns to the bar and says something to him. He answers without taking his eyes off me. She laughs again and moves away. I drink the wine because I am not petty enough to refuse correctness.
Mostly.
At around 9:00, the chair across from me moves. Not much. Just a soft scrape against the old floor. I look up as he stands beside the table, one hand resting on the back of the chair, his glass in the other. Up close, the room’s warm light does nothing to soften him. It only makes the deep blue of his eyes more difficult to ignore and turns the silver at his temples into something unfair.
“You were right,” he says.
I lift my brows.
“I usually enjoy hearing that, but context would improve the experience.”
He looks at the plate of beans.
“The first wine was too sharp by the third bite.”
“So you sent me a correction?” I ask.
He says, “I sent you a better argument.”
“That is a very arrogant way to describe wine.”
“It was a very good wine,” he says.
I take another sip. “Unfortunately, yes.”
His gaze flickers with amusement.
