Drinks For Two
Posted by admin on July 30th, 2010
Stefan is kind of a douche about wine. Not only that, but Rachel has started to notice that he’s kind of a douche about a lot of things.
“Oh thank god!” Sarah said, when Rachel told her about these new feelings. “Stefan is the worst. I’m so glad you finally noticed.” A bit pained, Rachel nodded as Sarah recounted her first meeting with Stefan and all the douchey things he’d done since then. “Remember how he said I had a masculine handshake and how it was ‘a bit offputting’? Who talks like that? And what about all of his forgive me buts? ‘Forgive me, but having actually been to Nevada I can say with confidence that humidity is more taxing than dry heat. Forgive me, but coriander and cilantro are actually one in the same. Did you know it’s also called Chinese Parsley? Just a fun cooking fact.’” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Ass. Even his name is douchey! Stefan. God I hate the letter F.” Rachel laughed and chose not to mention that Sarah had oddly performed her entire Stefan imitation in a faux-British accent.
But it was true that he had a particularly pompous way of expressing himself. It was one of the things that had, in all honesty, initially attracted Rachel. She mistook his pretensions for admirable intellectualism. And who could blame her really? It was easy to ignore his faults, what with his eyes being so piercingly blue, his arms and chest so firm and tan. He was tall and confident and sexy and, when they first met, had just returned from traveling in Asia and told the stories of his experience with such eloquence and interest to detail. But if you stay with someone long enough, all the things you used to love become little annoyances that you must teach yourself to just grit your teeth and bear. The wine stuff was by far the worst of it.
He would go on and on about wine. “If you really give yourself over to the wine, really open yourself up to its scent and communicate with it, you can almost smell how much rain the vineyard had that season.”
“Mm. Almost,” she had replied with raised eyebrows.
He loved to talk to her about what they were each tasting in a particular glass of wine. “Do you notice the hint of nutmeg? The aroma of soft wood? Is that asparagus I’m sensing here? Oh, how wonderful are those subtle notes of citrus? I think this one might have a bit of passion fruit. Is that passion fruit we’re tasting?” Rachel had never even once in her life tasted passion fruit, so how the hell could she possibly know?
“Sometimes I like to put an ice cube in my red wine,” she once told him. “Like when it’s a hot day and I’m looking to drink something refreshing.” His face had contorted then into a tortured mask of shock and despair. She tried to smooth things over later that same night by bringing one of the empty wine bottles with them to bed and suggesting he could slide the neck of the bottle in and out of her while she took him into her mouth, but the idea made him go limp in her hand and they silently vowed to never speak of that night again.
She remembered all of these moments, all these extended conversations about wine, with increasing frustration now as he rambled on about the three bottles he’d just brought over to her house. “I really had trouble deciding between the 2008 and the 2009,” he said, gesturing toward one bottle, “until I remembered something I read recently about 2008 being a particularly good year for Shiraz in that region. So then my choice was pretty much made for me. Now this one,” he picked up one of the bottles and held it out to her like a waiter during the wine presentation,”this is a very special bottle. That one cost me a bit more than I care to tell,” he chuckled. “That one is just for you, to drink someday for whatever you deem to be a special enough occasion.”
“Oh Stefan,” she felt herself soften, felt the hot rush of her attraction return. “That’s really sweet of you. You shouldn’t have. And look, it has such a pretty label.”
He cocked his head to the side and gave her a sympathetic, puppy dog look–a look she had seen and hated many times before. “Oh sweetie,” he crooned, patting her lightly on the top of her head, “you really are adorably simple, aren’t you?”
In a flash, before she had time to even think about her actions, Rachel grabbed the bottle by its base and smashed the head of it against the kitchen counter. The bottle’s neck shattered and glass and dark wine rained down onto the floor.
“What the fuck?” Stefan shouted, jumping back as Rachel pushed past him and flung open the freezer door. She reached into the ice box, pulled out a handful of cubes and dropped them one at a time into the gaping mouth of her shattered bottle. “Hey-” Stefan’s voice cracked in protest, but she ignored him and brushed by him again as she moved toward the cabinet that held her wine glasses. Grabbing the largest, roundest glass she owned, she held it by the stem in one hand, the dripping bottle in the other and lifted her arms high above her head.
“Get out.” She told him.
“What?” His voice incredulous.
“Oh and thanks for the wine, babe. You were right, this is perfect for a special occasion.”
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