I Fell in Love with Him Over a Glass of Wine
I fell in love with him over a glass of wine. Or because of wine. Hmm. Or perhaps the sheer display of his passion, his blue eyes alive, his curly blond hair bouncing. His thick Tuscan accent rolling.
It was the way he grabbed the glass, swirled the wine, funneled into its soul and brought it up to his nose to see what he could detect: "apples, mineral, oak, sulfur," and then . . . stop . . . his mind shut off . . . I could see it happening and I tried hard to pretend like I wasn't hanging off my seat yearning to be inside that glass so he could perform the same analysis on me.
Stop . . . and then his lips parted like open hands ready to receive . . . and he tasted. The wine didn't make it to the back of his throat immediately. It stayed in front as he sucked air through his teeth like Koreans eat noodles. He sucked and swished and created a hurricane around his tongue and cheeks with that verdicchio, all while his eyes gazed blankly at mine and mine dived into his trying to feel what he felt.
He swallowed. "Good for cooking." Now he could smile. He loved his verdict. "I'll order the Barbera," he said. "It's the only thing drinkable by the glass.
"Well I like it." I said. "Of course it's not a white burgundy but it hits the spot. I can't drink red during the summer."
"Okay," he shrugged.
We were still only friends on this day, and I don't think I really knew that I was falling in love with him yet. It just happened from one day to the next. A few days after this night together he looked into my eyes and mine into his - and it was love at first sight - after two years of friendship.