A Bad Year For Wine
As the ordinary commotion of that very pub in
London echoed in his ears, he suddenly realized that he was too tired for this.
He wiped the last scotch glass and looked at all the chubby businessmen gulping
their Martinis and puffing their huge cigarettes. His eyes passed on the pretty
ladies sitting right next to them. They were wearing expensive clothing that
lacked a proper fashion sense, which obviously was a sign that they did not
actually belong there. He planned his retour in his head. Since the Covent
Garden station was still closed and there wasn’t much cash left in his good
ole’ Oyster, he thought he’d walk. Only a couple of hours, he told himself, I
will be sitting in my sofa away from all this tacky contemporary drama. Oh only
if those hours passed quicker! He could hear some footsteps accompanied by the
tricky bicycle taxi drivers voice, trying to fool three girls by wanting fifty
pounds for a seven pound drive outside when every thought he ever had, every
sound he ever heard and every vision he’s ever seen vanished for an instant as
he heard the most angelic voice say the words that at least ninety other
customers had said to him earlier that night: “Hello.” He forced his body to
defreeze and put his tired eyes on her. She had a bewildered smile and her
eyebrows were raised, as if she was solving a tricky math question. The little
black feather hat on her head she looked as if she just fled a Royal Wedding.
Her eyes wandered around the chalkboard menu on the wall as he said with a
hesitant voice: “H-Hello, what will it be?” She looked into his eyes and
ordered a nice glass of Chardonnay 1985.
As he was pouring the wine, she nervously put her fingers dressed up in a black
lacey glove up and down the counter. He felt as if his heart could jump right
this instant out of his body and run home. He knew, that after this incident
his life would never be the same. She gave out a little “Merci.”, after he
served his wine. He thought he bothered her enough and returned to wiping glasses.
What if he asked? What could possibly happen from only asking? He thought. We
could go to the movies or have dinner or just walk by the Thames and talk by
the park! We could feed the birds and I’d make a couple of bad jokes, we could
take the tube to Notting Hill together and I’d act out the movie and
accidentally burn my hand! She’d laugh because she would think I’m funny and
oh- what I would give for her to let me love her! I would love her with a love
that would be more than love that the seraphs of heaven would get jealous, he
thought. He was deeply buried in his thoughts that he couldn’t distinguish the
sound of those little heals neatly getting away. When he put his head up,
instead of the heavenly face and the glass of wine he was expecting, he just
saw one lacey black glove. He quickly took it and rushed to the street. But
even in this quite hour of the night, the street was quiescent and empty. He
stayed there for what his boss defined as “a bare customers time”. When he got
back in, he started to look at the glove. He suddenly noticed an address sewed
to the inside of it: 24 Lancaster Road.
He quickly left, without even
taking his coat. His heart was beating so fast. He started running towards the
direction. After a couple of tourist-like direction demands and five rain
showers he found himself in a quartier
which had to be right next to Lancaster Road. He saw an old lady walking down
the street and approached her. When he asked her the way to building number 24,
her eyes widened: “But my dear boy, that building burnt down in 1985!” She
didn’t give any details but over his now very blurry mind, he could still hear
her mumbling:”Oh what a bad year was it for wine, the pre-harvest stress went
on for ages!”
