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Wine in the Woods

May 15, 2010 by Post Team 

Wine in the WoodsWine in the Woods:The next night President Bill Obama spent health care, my mother had me on the phone, leads me through the panic attack. He loved his health insurance, which was hard won and she did not want to cash in what it considers an issue of government “schleppy.” Then he turned his anger on me: “How long you going to let Ronny pay for yours?”

Six years ago, Ronny – my deepest love to date – was interrupted over our decade together for the reason that monogamy could not do anymore. I was dead. He was injured. He also insisted on keeping me – with bulbs, coffee grinder repairs and insurance.

“How long?” I asked.

“During the time I can,” he replied.

Ronny and I had counted on growing old together, and the little that was mine was always yours and vice versa. I had grown to its many wounds and pulled him through law school. Being a wine writer, my earning potential was nowhere near what was on the verge of his being. No matter what I’m working hard, paying for health insurance was not in my future. That Ronny agreed to cover me get the status of gentleman – everyone except my mother, who really hated him.

Meanwhile, followed him to cook a meal occasionally. We would do one of two steps up and down my floor of the railway. We lost our relationship and entered into a ghost world of addiction, in part forced by our insurance settlement.

I saved a phone call from my mother by the sound of my doorbell. There was a downpour, so I hurried to leave my friend. Dinner and conversation were on tap. When he arrived at my door, soaked his dark wool coat, looked like a beagle humid, with big brown eyes.

About 15 years younger than I, which had been going through a tough time – unstable relationship, the father recently diagnosed with cancer – and was eager to see me.

I had wasted in a small number of first morels of the season and roasted thin asparagus. Chick food. To expose the Riedels. With them I have a couple of wines. Our choices were a 1982 or 2005 Cune Imperial Gonon San Jose.

He wasted no time. “What is happening? I asked.

“Now?” He said. “Why do not we wait a bit?”

The air was heavy and the humidity was not outside. We chat while watching the bottles. The elder, Cune Imperial Rioja, could not resist. I raised the glass to my nose, crumpled in disappointment; flavors were off. Something about the life of the fruit had been turned off. In professional reflex, she and I turned hard, as if the urge came to wake up, then lifted the glasses to smell. No luck.

“So?” I asked, willing to hear out of your relationship or want advice on opening a wine bar.

Her face was impassive. Then he said: “It’s not me, Alice. It’s about you.”

Few things shock me, but it blinded me. Unsuccessfully ran through the possibilities. I do not see anyone, so there was no intrigue. No one could imagine that salacious gossip floating attached to my name. In the world of wine I’m known as a pot stirrer, but of late had not even had the burner on under my pots.

His big eyes stared at me. Took a deep breath and said softly: “I’ve been watching Ronny.”

Note to self: Check parts to see if they’re all there. Arms? The intestines? Hands? Check. Heart? Yes! Not even any flutter. For months I had long suspected endured the pain of the breakup of Ronny and Alice had run its course. It only took six years to work their way-like virus from my system. Too long, but ours was not a relationship as much as it was Tolstoy. And there it was. The test. I was out of danger. And believe me, after several years of mourning was a revelation.

However, upon hearing his confession was a knot in the stomach. I had had enough drama in my life and need not be dragged into this tightly rolled fabric of their girlfriends, their love new and different pre-existing relationships. I thought, “For this I made dinner? Coffee would not have been more appropriate?”

Trying to understand my emotions, he said: “There is something wrong with this wine, right?”

He stuck his nose into the glass.

I said, “It’s all wrong,” and sniffed for signs of life.

“Yes it is” accepted.

I opened the bottle of syrah, the San Jose Gonon, and expect the best.

His eyes track my movements as if looking for the cr4cks. “You seem relieved,” he said.

Relieved? I was almost giddy. A friend had slept with my old love and all I felt was pity for her, not pain for me.

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