The Week of Tearing Up

“Coconut Kiss,” she said and handed me a gold-wrapped orb the size of a golf ball.

Real gold. If I had known that and that the value of the contents far outweighed the delicate, shiny wrapper, I might have hesitated before embarking on this journey. But I was young and reckless and tore away the precious metal with a careless flourish. Even as my nails had penetrated the sealed chamber within, a waft of sweet coconut perfume had escaped to fill the room, and now as I laid bare the second layer of wrapping, oiled silk clinging to an unknown centre, it reached out to me with a thousand complex fragrances.

I gasped, stopped for a moment, unused to such powerful experiences, but in a moment I was drawn back in to the task at hand, now nervous fingers pealing away the glistening silk. Spreading it out on the bed of gold, I uncovered the beautiful, moist, white-flecked centre. Damp clumps of excess shredded coconut fell away as I lifted the bite-sized ball in awe, my rough, unworthy lips parting in anticipation, and dog that I was, I popped it in in a single mouthful.

Immediately, my world changed. Coconut splendour pulsed out from the majestic snowball, filling every cavity of my mouth with craving. But I was strong, savouring the moment, not biting yet, but letting the essence of the sweetmeat pervade my being. My eyes closed, pushing away the distractions of the outer world, allowing me to linger in my observation of the tender excitement growing within me. At last I could hold on no longer. Teeth crunching through the myriad of carefully crafted layers, I released the beast within to ravish the morsel I had been blessed with. I was not prepared for what came next.

Rocking gently back and forth, I moaned as the Kiss took control of my body, filling me with a sweetness unbearable, yet unresistible, as liquid sugars oozed from between crunchy wafers and white chocolates – four different at least – swam among exotic desert island flavourings. Nothing, absolutely nothing in the world of chocolates compared with that moment.

Don’t get me wrong, I love me some Raffaello, but those dry, flaky balls paled in comparison to this archetype of coconut chocolates. I was unworthy, but every bite released a thousand tender caresses, each informing me there was none more deserving than I, causing me to tear up. The angels wept and I with them, shiny drops of happiness streaking down my cheeks.

I swallowed the last morsel and breathing heavily, looked up at my partner, trying to take in what she had just given me. She was smiling.


And then we spent the rest of the week eating chocolates just like that one.

More than Meets the Eye

Train Girl

I got onto the train and wandered down the corridor looking for an empty compartment to sit in. The first few were full and I was just resigning myself to being crammed between a vapid old granny and a sweating football fan when I looked into another one and stopped. It was empty except for a pretty good-looking twenty-something brunette. She was wearing a rather hip black dress, and a revealing blouse, both of which subtly enhanced her natural feminine beauty.

The next compartment was full, so I stepped into the brunette’s one. As I entered she turned her head and our eyes met. For a few moments I held her with my true blues, then she dropped her gaze.

“Is this seat free,” I asked, pointing at the place opposite her, next to the window.

She nodded.

“Yes, it is,” she said and smiled, then blushed slightly and looked out the window.

“Good,” I said. “I prefer a window seat”.

Sitting down, I pulled a book from my pocket and immersed myself. The train picked up speed and the girl turned her attention to the fleeting countryside. At least I assume she did.

A minute or so went by; then she spoke.

“Excuse me, you wouldn’t have a light, would you?”

I finished reading the last three sentences in the paragraph, then put the book down with a dissatisfied grunt. I looked at her. She looked back. She may have fluttered her eyelashes.

“No I don’t,” I said. “And as a matter of fact, I don’t believe in smoking at all. It’s a wicked habit and almost certain to give you cancer.”

She looked rather taken aback by this reply, so I leaned towards her and continued.

“Furthermore, if I were in the government, I would not hesitate to ban the practice entirely, as it is responsible for the deaths of more pretty girls than any other cause.”

My face was dead serious and she half smiled, unsure whether or not I was joking with her.

“At least I would for blondes,” I said and returned to my book.

“Why blondes?” she asked indignantly.

I ignored her question and tried to carry on reading.

“Well why?” she repeated.

I put the book down in an exaggerated movement and gave her a look.

“Because they are so rare that it’s such a shame to kill them off with nicotine,” I said.

She almost dropped the indignant expression so I continued.

“And of course because they’re so much sexier than the rest.”

I looked her straight in the eyes, letting my mouth curl just a fraction as I watched her expression. She sniffed, looked away, then became embarrassed that she had done so and turned slightly red in the cheeks. I chuckled and returned to my book.

Perhaps five minutes went by when I looked up suddenly and caught her watching me. She flinched, and then gave me a haughty look.

“I was wondering what you were reading,” she said coldly.

“Sartre,” I replied.

“I think I’ve heard of that book,” she said. “Is it nice?”

I looked at her and smiled. It was a long, sunny smile, the kind that you could use to cultivate Beaujolais grapes in.

“You know,” I said, looking as though she’d just made my day, “you remind me a lot of my blonde friends.”

“As in the ‘so much sexier’ ones?” she said making inverted comma signs with her fingers.

“Well actually, I meant intellectually.”

She flared up.

“Are you trying to insult me?” she demanded.

“Typical stereotype thinking,” I sneered, inwardly jubilant that she had taken the bait. “Who said my blonde friends are anything short of intellectual brain-boxes?”

“Well, it sounded that way, I mean-” she broke off confused. The train drew to halt outside a station.

“Oh! I must go now,” she said. “It’s my station.”

“Have a nice day,” I muttered as I hunted for the line in the book where she had interrupted me. I heard the door to the compartment close behind her. I sighed, pulled out a Galois cigarette, lit it and inhaled the luxurious smoke.

Train Man

I got off the train still unsure what to think of him. As I walked away from the train, I glanced back at the window where he sat and froze. Blue smoke curled away from a cigarette held in a nonchalant hand – his hand. I marched back to the train, got on and threw open the door to his compartment.

“Okay Mr.” I said, “you better explain yourself!”

He took a deep suck at the cigarette, turned to look at me and blew a languid haze between us.

“The train’s about leave, you know,” he said. “You should get off while you can.”

“Don’t worry about me!” I snarled. “I want to know what all that ‘cigarettes-are-evil’ stuff was meant to mean!”

Outside the stationmaster whistled. The smoking young man sat silent, lips curling in an infuriating manner. The train moved off. I stood defiant.

At last he laughed and said “Alright. If it’s that important to you, I’ll explain my smoking philosophy.”

I raised an eyebrow. He continued.

“I think smoking is very bad for people in general, and other people in particular. Cancer is one of the prime causes of death in this country. Obviously, it’s not in my interests for my friends and colleagues to die around me, so I’m all against them smoking.”

“But you smoke yourself!”

“Well why not? From my point of view, what difference does it make if I die at fifty or sixty? I know I won’t live forever in any case, so carpe diem, I say. I’m not one to haggle over a few years, you know.”

The train rattled round a long bend and I had to catch hold of the luggage rack to prevent myself from falling.

“That’s terribly selfish of you,” I said, sitting down on my previous place.

“Well I go out of my way to make sure nobody’ll miss me when I’m gone,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I’m most considerate!”

“Ha-ha! I can see that!”

I paused.

“So what you are saying is that when you refused to give me a light, you were actually paying an enormous compliment to my grace and beauty? Sorry, I’m immune to flattery.”

His brow crinkled for a moment, then cleared. He half-smiled as he reached into his pocket.

“Want a cigarette?” he said and offered me one.

“Oh you are rude!” I said, “and yes, I would like one, thank you.”

I took the cigarette from him and he lit it with a classy silver lighter that looked antique. The cigarette itself was rather unpleasant, yet strangely enjoyable. How fitting- except for the enjoyable part, of course. For some moments we sat watching each other, enjoying the smoke. He glanced at the door to the compartment, then with a casual movement, threw the half-smoked cigarette out the window. The ticket collector entered. He was a solid-looking man of about forty.

“I’m afraid this is a non-smoker ma’am” he said, frowning as he observed the cigarette in my hand. He pointed at a sign on the door of the compartment, which I hadn’t seen. I blushed crimson and threw the cigarette out the window, trying hard not to notice my companion’s evil grin.

“May I see your tickets please,” said the conductor.

It dawned on me then, that my ticket was only valid till the previous stop. I rummaged in my handbag trying to find it. I couldn’t. The ticket collector was now standing over me. I was holding him up. At last I found the ticket and handed it to him. He raised an eyebrow on reading it.

“This ticket only takes you as far as Nové Hůlky,” he said and began to rummage in his bag, no doubt for ticket to write out a fine on.

I could feel my ears burning as I started to stammer an excuse. My companion interrupted me.

“I’m afraid the young lady was unlucky enough to leave her handbag in the compartment when she got out at the last station,” he said. I shot a quick glance at him as he continued.

“And then the train started up before she had time to get off.”

“Ah, I wondered why you got off and on again,” said the conductor. “Make sure you leave the train at the next stop, ma’am. Good day!”

He turned and left the compartment. I heard him enter the next one and call ‘tickets please!’ My companion whistled a few notes and looked up at the ceiling.

“Thank you!” I said. “I’m sure he would have fined me if you hadn’t spoken up.”

“Well, I saw the terrified look of the multiple recidivist about to be caught flash through your eyes, so I felt honour-bound to come to your aid. Damsel in distress and all that.”

I giggled.

“Are you getting off at the next stop?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, yes. I was hoping I’d finish the book by the end of the journey, but what with all these interruptions…” He raised his hands in a despairing manner.

“Then at least let me buy you a drink to compensate and thank you for coming to my aid so gallantly a moment ago,” I said.

“If you insist,” he said and for once he actually smiled pleasantly.

“And it really is about time you introduced yourself,” I said.

“After you,” he said.

“I’m Jane,” I said and offered him my hand.

“Simon,” he said and took it.

The train stopped and we got out, he first so he could help me down with smirking chivalry. As I stepped down I decided I definitely wouldn’t be telling him any time soon the truth that my chestnut-dyed hair is in fact naturally blonde.

Country Pancake

It was to be Steve’s first hike through the mountains. In fact he’d never even been on a camping trip. But it was his final year before starting university and someone had said “wouldn’t it be great to go hill-walking in Scotland.” And then it had been organized. Originally fifteen people were to have gone, but by and by, their party had dwindled down to four. Two boys, Steve and his best friend Jake, and two girls, Dora and Sue-Ellen. Dora was Steve’s ex- and Jake’s current girlfriend. Sue-Ellen was her friend. Why would anyone want to call their daughter Sue-Ellen? It was like they couldn’t make up their minds, which name to give her. His dad, who was driving him to the place where they were to meet up, would never have chosen a name like that. Steve stared out of the car window at the sky and hoped it wouldn’t rain.

Their tiny car wound it’s way along the twisting roller-coaster roads that led into the mountains. Steve’s dad was enjoying himself immensely. “Use the goddam map, woman,” he bawled at his wife. “Do we turn right here or go straight ahead? Look, we’re here –“ He jabbed at the map that was covering the left hand side of the car. He took the right turn marked ‘Glen Dui’ and with a satisfied look, pushed on the accelerator. The car rocketed over a bump in a way that made Steve’s stomach lurch.

“Now which way?”

“Straight ahead, dear, I think.”

“Is it left or right, here? Say left or right!”

“It looks straight on the map, but I think it’s the l-“

“Left! Why can’t you just say it?” He sped past another Glen Dui sign.

“I really don’t see why you need me to read the map for you when you ignore everything I say.” She half-folded the map and leaned back.

Steve always felt miserable in the car when his Dad drove through hilly country. He wished he could remove his stomach and let it suffer without him. The moody sky did little to cheer him up. It would rain; he knew it. It would rain the whole ruddy day, like every day in Scotland, and they would be soaked through. And people did this for fun.

At last they stopped. Steve’s dad turned and looked at him.

“This is as far as we can take you, Steve. Look, we’re here.” He pulled the map out of his wife’s hands and pointed to a road near the edge of Glen Dui. “You have to go up this lane and then you’ll be at the spot you agreed on with your friends.”

Steve ran a hand through his full black hair and licked his fat lips.

“I thought you’d take me all the way up to the rendezvous,” he said.

“So did I,” said his dad, “but you see that sign? It says the road’s closed except for residents. They probably live in the farm over there.” Steve’s dad pointed at a group of buildings some way up the road. “Don’t worry. It’s not far, especially when compared with the rest of the route you’re travelling.”

Steve winced. “Twenty miles; I know.”

He got out of the car and hoisted his pack. “Have a nice time at Craigie Castle.”

“It’s Crathes, actually,” said his dad, “and we’re also going to stop by at Drumoak. We’ll pick you up the other side. We’ll be there at six and wait up until nine. After that we start worrying the police.” He laughed.

“Are you sure you packed everything?” said his mum. “You’ve got the sandwiches?”

“Yes.”

“And water?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a map?” she asked.

“Yes! I don’t know why I should need it, though. It’s not as if there’s anywhere to get lost on a straight path from A to B.”

“Don’t you believe it!” retorted his mum. “In the mountains the mist can come down at any moment. I heard of a man who got lost in the mist and died just fifty metres away from his cabin. He’d been walking round and round in circles all night without realizing how close he was to home!” She looked triumphantly at Steve, as though she’d proven her point.

“Yeah, well, he should have kept to the path,” said Steve. “Look, I’d best get going, so I don’t come late. The others are probably already there.”

His dad looked up from the map, which he’d been studying while they were talking. “I think we’ll stop by at Loch Luin on the way. There’s an interesting walk past some waterfalls.” He looked at Steve. “Have a nice day, boy.” He passed the map back to Steve’s mum and started the engine. With a growl and a screech the car did a U-turn, stopped, and then reversed back to Steve. His mum popped her head out of the window.

“You did remember to pack your raincoat?”

“Of course!” said Steve “I’m not entirely incapable, you know.” He was eighteen and she treated him like a baby.

They said goodbye and the car leapt forward. It bounded back across the bumps and zoomed into the distance. Behind Steve the hills waited.

Sue-Ellen had camped overnight. Whilst the others had got their parents to bring them down, she had gone alone, hitchhiking her way up north. She loved the freedom of being able go wherever she pleased in the Scottish hills. They had a meditative loneliness to them that was pleasant, but she was looking forward to disrupting it with some companionship. She’d only joined their school a year ago and hadn’t made very many friends, except Dora. And Dora was not the most reliable kind of friend to have. It was annoying that that creep Steve was coming. Dora had told her about him and how he treated girls. They were material to be used and abused, enjoyed and abandoned. And you wouldn’t want to be left in a room alone with Steve, much less a dark alley. He was deceptively attractive, but once you saw through the outer crust of assumed naivety and innocence, he was just another lady-killer out for some sport.

Steve walked up the lane. It had trees on both sides, the last before the hills, and farm buildings on the right. They looked as though they were inhabited, but nobody was about, almost as if everyone had been suddenly abducted by aliens. A lot of Scotland was like that. Lonely houses and farms stranded in the middle of acres of fields with nobody about. You saw plenty of sheep and cattle (he loved the highland cows), and occasionally deer and rabbits, but hardly ever any humans.

Light drizzle pattered on the leaves overhead. Steve licked his lips and glanced up at the grey between the green. He had a nasty feeling, which he wasn’t prepared to admit to himself, at least not just yet. As he reached the end of the avenue it began to rain in earnest. He stopped and opened his bag. The rain trickled down his neck as he rummaged through the pack. He cursed. Why wasn’t it there? He’d meant to pack it. It should be there. Must have left it on his bedside table. Yes, that was it. He’d put it with the towel and then decided he didn’t need a towel. Mum had called for tea and then he’d forgotten about it. Blasted raincoat.

A smirk of wind sent him a shower of pearly raindrops from the leaves above and the rain, it’s point having been made, left in the direction of Loch Luin. He hoisted his pack and set off.

If he ignored the wind, the rain and the cold, it was actually quite nice. Great rolling hills blanketed in brown and purple heather stretched out like giants tucked up in bed. At their feet lay great fields, sparsely populated by flocks of sheep who stared at Steve through the gaps in the crumbling dykes like old men watching telly. The grass was deep green, not dry and yellow like you got back home in England on a summer’s day. It must be the rain, he thought.

The road, which had since become a track, left the fields behind and crept up to a large cairn, the meeting point they’d agreed on. Steve followed it up. The plateau about the cairn was bare except for a single small tent. It was of the classical style, four sticks holding up a crosspiece, which supported the canvas. It was only big enough for one person.

“Hello?” called Steve.

Sue-Ellen peeked out the front of the tent like a stag’s head on a wall. Her red frizzy hair sprang left and right in two clumps like little heather bushes.

“Oh, hello Steven.” She peered at him with her sharp true-blue eyes. “Where are the others?”

“I dunno. Everyone was supposed to be here at ten and it’s now –“ he looked at his watch “– five to ten.” He licked his lips. “I haven’t talked with anyone since Wednesday. Have you?”

“No. Dora said she’d phone if there were to be any changes, but she hasn’t. I’d have phoned her, but I’m almost out of credit and don’t know that I’ll be able to recharge my phone till we get home. The battery needs recharging as well.”

“Ah, right,” said Steven, “we’ll, just have to wait then.” He hated it when people didn’t come on time. Looking back, the path seemed just as empty as when he’d walked it himself. That meant there was no chance of any of the others coming on time. They were late.

Steve watched Sue pack up her tent and stuff. Although she had a slim athletic body and a great figure, she was the sort you avoided. There were rumours about her, that she was queer. And apparently she was in some weird religious sect. Dora had hinted as much. She and Jake should have been there by now. Why couldn’t they come on time?

“Say Sue, maybe we should phone the others and see what’s keeping them. They’re already quarter of an hour late.”

“OK. Call them.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

Sue-Ellen looked at him and snorted. “Still living in the middle ages?”

She dialled on her own phone and then pressed it to her ear, listening to the slow steady ringing. A voice crackled into life.

“Hello Sue, we were just missing you! Where are you?”

“What do you mean ‘where am I?’ Where are you? You should have been here at the cairn twenty minutes ago.”

There was a gasp from the other end.

“You’re at the cairn? But we cancelled the hill walk. The weather forecast is awful! Didn’t you know?”

“How could I, if nobody told me?” said Sue, exasperated.

“Oh Sue! I’m just sooo sorry. I meant to phone yesterday, but it slipped my mind. Jake knew and I thought you did too. Is Stevey with you?”

“Yes. Look, how could I know if you didn’t –” The phone cut. Sue-Ellen looked up at Steve who was staring at her aghast.

“They’re not coming,” she said.

“You mean it’s just the two of us?”

“I’m afraid so.”

For a moment they stood staring at each other.

“My mum and dad are picking me up on the other side. We can take you as well,” said Steve.

“Thanks. We can sort that out when we get there. Let’s get moving”

They shouldered their packs and turned to face Glen Dui.

Sue-Ellen walked behind with her head bowed so that he couldn’t see the fear in her eyes. She was alone in the mountains with a sexual predator. What if he raped her? No one would hear her scream out here. She fingered the clasp knife in her pocket. If he did try anything, she was going to make him bleed for it.

Steve trudged on ahead. He couldn’t have made a better mess of this day if he’d tried. Why the hell hadn’t Jake told him they’d cancelled the hill walk? Now he had to walk twenty miles through mud and rain without a raincoat and only a religious nut for company. And from the way she looked at him it was obvious she preferred girls for company.

They walked for an hour before arriving at the mouth of the glen where the river Dui poured out. Steve showed it on the map, and Sue-Ellen said it was really just a wide stream. Steve thought the map should know, but suggested they call it a burn, if she preferred. She acquiesced, and they washed their hands in it before setting off again.

The path led away from the burn and up into the hills. Then it entered a thick patch of ferns, which reached almost to their shoulders. Steve remembered how when he was small, he once built a hut out of ferns. He had wanted to sleep in it overnight, but his mum hadn’t let him. Sue looked as though she’d been born and bred in a fern bush.

They came to a fork in the road. Consulting the map, they saw that the two roads joined up again later. They took the left one, which was further away from the burn and therefore less likely to be boggy.

After some minutes they came upon a fir wood surrounded by a ten-foot tall fence. An uncompromising gate held shut by a padlock and chain blocked the path.

“Hey!” said Steve. “This isn’t on the map.”

“Maybe we just climb over and carry along the path.”

“They wouldn’t put a chain and padlock here without a reason. I say we go round it.”

“But then we’d have to go through the fern bushes – they’ll be full of ticks.” Sue shot an unhappy glance at the green mass.

Steve looked surprised. “I don’t think it’ll be that bad. Anyway, I’ll go first and trample a path. You follow. And remember, the ticks are on me!”

With a whoop he plunged into the overgrowth next to the fence. Sue hesitated for a moment and then followed.

“Watch out! There are stinging nettles here as well,” called Steve. He squashed them as best as he could as he pushed his way through the unfriendly greenery. A few minutes later they came to a brook. It babbled. As Steve stepped up to its edge, his foot slid on a wet mossy stone and sunk into the mud next to the water. With a slimy sucking noise and a muttered oath, he removed it.

“We have to jump here or get our feet wet,” he said.

“I can’t jump with this pack on and I’ve no intention of wading through a burn,” said Sue. She stuck her chin out. “We should have climbed the gate like I said.”

“It’s a brook, not a burn, and you give up far too easily. Here, give me your pack.”

“What are you going to do with it?” she asked suspiciously.

“Throw it across.”

“What?”

“Look, don’t be silly. Those ferns are a perfect cushion. It’ll land as softly as a baby being put to bed.”

She eyed him for moment, lips pursed, then shrugged. “On your head be it.”

Steve smiled and took her pack. One up for me, he thought. His brows furrowed with concentration as he prepared to throw it. It had to go straight over without spinning in the air. His muscles tensed. With all his might he threw it. With both his feet he slipped.

Behind him Sue burst out laughing. “Oh, well thrown! Such sacrifices on my behalf!”

Steve grimaced at his reflection as he balanced on his right hand in the middle of the stream. The water soaked lovingly into his sleeve and tried to lap his face. He looked up and saw the pack reclining gracefully in a bed of ferns on the other bank.

“Do you think you could lend a hand, please?” he said, reaching back with his left. Her small firm hands clasped his and pulled him upright. She was still giggling.

“You looked a sight, stretched out like a bridge! I was tempted to walk right over you.”

“There’d have been two of us in the brook if you’d have tried.”

“So now for your pack, or would you like me to throw it?” She grinned.

“I’ll keep it on my back, thanks. It’s not heavy.”

Sue leapt nimbly over the brook and then picked up her pack on the other side. Steve checked his footing before jumping so as not to make an even bigger fool of himself.

Sue took the lead and set to making a path through the ferns. She didn’t waste time trampling the nettles, which couldn’t hurt them through their trousers, anyway. Steve had a hard time keeping up as she darted deer-like ahead of him. At last they came out of the ferns and onto a path, the right fork that they had feared would be boggy.

They had a rest and a drink of water. Sue told an anecdote about how her cousin had tried to tip her into a stream when she was nine and then fallen in himself. Steve laughed and thought that perhaps she might not be that bad after all. Besides, she hadn’t mentioned God even once the whole trip. Perhaps Dora had been mistaken…

They set off again, side by side. The ferns were soon left behind and for an hour or more they walked in the heather heaven of Glen Dui. For the first time that day the clouds parted and the sun gave them a motherly smile. The path had gradually dropped and was now approaching the bank of the Dui. Here the river narrowed and deepened. Its bed was made of large smooth black stones and there was a deep pool.

Sue looked longingly at the water.

“It’s a perfect natural swimming pool,” she said.

“Go ahead and take a dip,” grinned Steve, “I’ll watch your clothes.”

Sue gave him an odd look. “I think the water is rather too cold for swimming.”

“Just joking,” said Steve. “But there’s no reason we can’t at least wash our feet.”

They found a nice spot and took off their shoes. Steve spread out his jacket on the bank and they sat down, easing their sweaty feet into the cool water. Steve thought Sue’s looked like pale seashells besides his own heavy kippers. Her toes were very pretty.

Sue-Ellen decided that Dora must have been wrong about Steve. He hadn’t made any improper advances and was actually more polite then most of the boys in their class. In fact she couldn’t imagine him doing anything rough or violent.

For five beautiful minutes they sat, silent, enjoying the cool water and mellow sunlight.

The sun soon vanished and they prepared to set off again. Steve offered to carry Sue’s heavier pack and she accepted, taking his. For an hour or so they trudged on. Above them the sky darkened to the colour of an oily rag.

“Would you like to hear a joke,” said Steve.

“Sure.”

Steve took a breath and then said “What would you rather do: run a mile, jump a stile or eat a country pancake?”

“Run a mile.”

“What? You mean you’d sooner run a mile than enjoy a lovely light delectable country pancake.”

“Definitely. I’ve run a marathon every year, three years running and I hate pancakes. So what’s the joke?”

“You’d have to be a pancake-eater for me to tell you.”

“It’s funny to eat pancakes?”

“Country pancakes,” said Steve.

There was a pause.

“I don’t get it,” said Sue-Ellen.

“Never mind, it’s a dumb joke anyway,” said Steve.

Telling jokes was something he’d never been much good at. That was why dating Dora had been so awful. She’d expected him to be witty all the time. That had been half a year ago and he was glad it was over.

The road twisted about like a lazy snake for almost an hour. They came to the top of a small hillock and looked down at the path winding away into the distance. They could see a small house encircled by a low dyke standing by the roadside. Smoke was coming from the chimney and a car stood in front of it.

“Must be one of the ‘residents’ that are allowed to drive up here,” said Steve.

“It must be beautiful to live up here in the mountains, so far away from it all,” said Sue.

“Yes,” said Steve. “It’s the sort of place you could retire to.”

“Just peace and quiet.”

They fell silent as they approached the cottage. Voices were coming from within. Raised voices.

“Haud yer wheesht, ya auld hag!” bawled a rasping Scottish accent.

“An’ I might too, you scunner,” replied a woman’s screech, “seeing as you dinna listen to a word I say.”

“Ya talk nought but a wheen o’ blethers, ya skelly-eyed kye.”

“Oh really! That’s fine talk comin’ from a bubblyjock like you!”

Steve and Sue-Ellen quickened their pace as they walked past the row and soon passed out of earshot. They continued in silence for some distance before Sue spoke.

“That was pretty awful. Not a bit how I’d imagined people live, up here in the mountains.”

“Oh I don’t know,” said Steve, “people are the same everywhere, I guess. Mum and Dad have had rows for over twenty years without it causing too much bother. Actually, I think those two Scots were enjoying themselves.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’ll bet they savoured every juicy word.”

“Would you?”

“No. I prefer my mum’s tactic,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Keep quiet, wait for the other chap to finish blowing his top, and then quietly ask what he’s getting so worked up about. You should see the colour of my dad’s face after a shot like that.”

Sue laughed. “But I still think it’s better to talk things over rather than quarrelling.”

“There, of course, you’re right,” said Steve.

They walked on.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and water began to drop from the sky.

“It’s starting to rain,” said Sue. “We’d best put our raincoats on.” She started to rummage in her pack.

“Er,” said Steve, “you wouldn’t happen to have an additional raincoat, would you?”

“You mean you left without packing a raincoat?” She stared at him as if she couldn’t believe someone could be that stupid.

“I meant to pack it, but I was in a bit of a hurry and then it got left behind.” He looked at her like a sad puppy, as though to say “don’t blame me, it’s not my fault.”

“My one’s quite big. It can cover us both.” She unfolded it and standing next to Steve spread it over both of them.

“Now take my arm so we’re closer together,” she said. “We’ll have to march in synchrony.

“You’re a small wonder, you know,” said Steve.

“And you’re a great big clod,” she answered.

As the rain began to set in in earnest, they marched off, the raincoat spread over them like the head of some gigantic blue mushroom.

Soon the path was full of little puddles and their boots were caked in light brown clay and mud. A raincoat held overhead doesn’t make the best of covers and over the next hour their trousers took more than a mouthful of rainwater. While Sue seemed impervious to the rain, Steve’s jeans were getting wet and heavy. Yet he was glad he’d forgotten his raincoat.

They came to a clump of trees and, as the rain didn’t seem to be letting up, they decided to stop and have lunch. Squatting under the lonely birches, they rummaged in the bags for the food they had packed. Facing Steve, Sue closed her eyes, made the sign of the cross, and then looked him in the eyes. Steve tensed. Now she’s going to start on about Jesus, he thought.

“Would you like a ham and lettuce sandwich,” she asked, “or did you at least remember to pack some lunch?”

“Uh, no thanks. My mum gave me a packed lunch.” He lunged a hand into his pack and held up an exemplary cellophane wrapped specimen.

“At least someone in your family has a bit of sense,” she commented.

They munched in silence for a moment.

Then Steve asked, “Would you like a banana?”

“Yes, please. I love bananas.”

They looked into each other’s eyes as Steve passed her the banana. He kept his grip for just a moment longer than necessary, the fruit connecting them like a yellow chain-link. Her deep blue eyes met, defied and winked at his mild brown ones. Steve released the banana, took another from his pack and carefully peeled it.

“So do I,” he said.

Having fulfilled the requirements of Nature, they once more donned the raincoat and set out into the rain. Steve continued to carry Sue’s pack. His respect for the girl at being prepared to carry that weight for twenty miles was only rivalled by his growing regret for having offered to carry it for her. They did a couple more miles and then came to a waterfall and a bridge over a burn that flowed from the waterfall into the Dui. Steve explained how the construction of the bridge worked and pointed out what a feat it must have been to build it out here, so far from anywhere. Sue agreed and they both admired the waterfall from the bridge. Water cascaded down some fifty metres over steps of jet-black rock, which jutted out here and there, like ogre’s fangs.

“What are you going to do after school?” asked Sue-Ellen as they stepped off the bridge.

The rain pattered off the raincoat.

Steve replied. “I want to be an architect. I’m going to be studying architecture in London.”

“Sounds pretty tough.”

“It is, but if you really want something enough, you’ll get it.”

“True,” said Sue-Ellen.

“What about you?”

“Oh, I could never do anything technical like that. I want to study languages, French, Spanish and maybe German. My German isn’t very good though.”

“That’s cool. You’re really lucky being able to speak all those languages.”

“I have a natural talent.”

The little patch of blue moved on, through the bog of brown. Above it, a similar patch appeared among the thick clouds. It grew.

“Hey, the rain’s stopping,” said Sue-Ellen. “We can take off this silly coat now.

Steve removed the coat and shook the water off it.

 “Want a sweetie?” he asked. He couldn’t stand hard-boiled sweets, especially the red artificial cherry ones, but his mum had packed some in with his lunch anyway. Sue had an orange one. He unwrapped a lemon flavoured one for himself and they set off, mouths full. Sue-Ellen insisted on taking her own pack this time.

“You’ve ca’id it fa’ enough,” she said.

They set off once more. Their feet ached, but there was no option but to carry on.  For the first half an hour they trudged in silence. Then Steve stopped and looked at Sue.

“What religion are you, anyway?” he said.

She met his gaze. “Roman Catholic.”

“Catholic? Dora made out you were part of some kind of weirdo sect!”

“That’s what they called us two thousand years ago.” She sighed. “Dora talks too much. But when did she tell you all that rubbish about me?”

“We dated last Christmas, briefly.”

“Oh!” Sue-Ellen looked startled. “But that would explain it.”

“Explain what?” said Steve.

“She was in love with you then and afraid I might pull you over. So she made up a lot of rot about us that she told each of us about the other and then, and then…” she broke off, trying to focus her thoughts. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

They set off again, each full of their own thoughts, thinking on all Dora had told them about the other and how much they really knew. On either side of the glen, the hills began to subside. They rounded a bend that afforded them a wonderful view of the Scottish farmlands.

“Look,” cried Steve, “highland cows!”

Sue-Ellen gazed at them for a moment and then burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” asked Steve.

“I’ve just worked out what a country pancake is. Honestly, what a joke to tell a girl.” She looked at him with twinkling eyes. “Tell me, what else did Dora say about me?”

“She told me that you have a physical preference for girls over boys,” he answered with mock seriousness.

She placed a hand on each of his shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “I assure you, Steven, she couldn’t have been further from the truth.”

“And what did she say about me?” he asked.

“She said you were a sex fiend.”

“Oh well, at least she was right about that.” Steven leaned down and they kissed.

Black Cloud

Depression. Darin had learned to live with it and enjoy it. When life got blackest, he found solace in sharing his misery with that of others. Books had always been his favourite escape, but this time he wanted something stronger. He wanted to immerse himself in someone else’s despair.

The Black Cloud lived up to its name. Smoke seemed to pour from the windows and door, lit from beneath by a pulsing glow of dim light. Massive waves of technogoth music floated out, striking Darin like a heavy blanket. He entered and was enveloped.

He needed a drink. Stepping up to the bar, he had first one, then another. With fire coursing in his veins and the beat striking at his ears, he slipped into the crowd on the dance floor and at once became insignificant, drowning in a sea of bodies and noise. Every thought was excluded from his mind to be replaced by sensation. He became one with the black-clothed bodies of his peers who writhed in mindless bliss, their bodies waving with the music, like puppets on their strings.

And into the darkness, there came light. As Darin twisted and turned, the crowd parted for just a moment. A girl in white sat at the bar. It was as if the music had gone silent. Like an automaton, he pushed his way towards her. The neons illuminated her platinum blonde hair and pale skin; they caressed the silvery dress she wore transfiguring her in Darin’s eyes. He sat down next to her and motioned for two drinks, then turned and met her slightly curious look.

‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered. The noise prevented his hearing her reply, but the pout of her lips sent a sensuous shiver traversing down his spine. They drank, but did not cease to gaze into each other’s eyes. Finishing hers, the girl leaned towards him keeping her chin level with his.

‘Dance with me,’ she seemed to say.

‘Love me,’ Darin answered.

They stepped into the maelstrom of dancing shadows. Where before, Darin had felt as part of the whole, he now became enclosed in world of his own, a world that he shared with this girl. The noise and the throng belonged to him no longer. In his world, there lived only love and beauty and desire. Her dark, blue eyes were in its centre; her slender body had become his only wish. They danced forever and laughed at time.

Illustration by vhm-alex at DeviantART.com 

The Wine of My Life

Foreword

This is a story of love based on my own passionate relationship with an amazing vintage wine. Most of the characters in this story are in fact based on various Czech wines, which are often delicious. Each wine has its own personal flavour, which, as with women, is unique to it, even though it may appear to be superficially no different than others of its kind. Both with wine and with women, our perspective of them is dependent on the setting and the mood in which we enjoy their company. More particularly, they are dependant on how we treat them. These aspects I have tried where possible to incorporate into this short tale.

Important note: the narrator has a pronounced English accent. Exactly which accent, I leave to you.

The Wine of My Life

I remember when I first met her, at the barbecue, how she stood with a fixed smile and unhappy eyes, as though praying to be rescued. She stood alone in a group of swarthy yokels who could not appreciate the delicacy of her sublime femininity. Their round red faces beamed at her through the trickles of sweat, as they did their best to cheer her up. She was a solitary rock in a sea of unreserved compliments. Flattering remarks poured over her thick blonde hair, simple praise splashed about her curvaceous form, kind words were lost in her deep blue eyes. How could those bumpkins hope to win over this woman, this goddess, so easily? Had they said anything she had not heard a thousand times before? To a beautiful woman such compliments are but cheap wine.

In that moment I felt nothing but pity for her. She would be rescued. I walked behind the group to where she could see me clearly, then pulled a sour face at her. She started, taken aback by the unexpected action, and then burst into a laughing smile. I winked and turned round. Her eyes were on me as I walked away. I remained with my back turned at one of the tables, waiting. A moment later I heard her voice.

“Why did you pull that sour face at me?”

Turning, I gave her a casual smile, “It was the natural reaction to seeing your face.” And before she could react I added, “You seemed in such a pickle.”

She laughed, then said, “I was until I met you,” and she gave me the full blast of her voluptuous gaze.

“Don’t be to sure about that,” I said as I spiked an onion from a nearby bowl and held it up towards her. She leaned towards it, sensuously parting her bright red lips, while our eyes remained connected. At the last moment I pulled it away and popped it in my mouth.

“Mmmmm,” I said, “these really are very good. You should try one.”

Her name was Silvia Orire and she was the regional vice-miss, a perfect beauty and certainly a ‘good catch.’ But for me she was to mean more than that. We spent the whole evening together. I had a good time teasing her, and making her laugh at every opportunity, never once letting out how much I wanted her. She offered me her number and I made a show of having nowhere to write it, so she had to go and borrow a pen and paper from our host. As we shook hands before parting, I countered the look in her eyes with one bordering on casual indifference. Her eyes began to crease with disappointment, but at that moment I pulled her towards me and leaning over her, kissed her fiercely on the lips. Then we parted. I watched her taxi disappear into the night.

I didn’t phone her straight away, but instead left her to stew for a couple of days. I let the anticipation build up, then I phoned her. She wasn’t in. Damn! I tried later, she wasn’t in. Double-damn! I wasn’t about to phone three times in one day so I left it at that. A couple of days later I discovered she had gone abroad.

* * *

And I saw her coming towards me, dressed only in flowing strings of pearls. A slow but powerful wind blew her golden hair towards me and her eyes gazed into me unflinching. I reached out to touch her stretching fingers and then she was pressing against my body, her hair in my mouth.

I awoke with my heart pounding like a mad gibbon. The hair was rich chestnut in colour, not blonde and the girl cuddling against my side was not Silvia. She was gorgeous though. I tried to remember the events of the night before. With friends at a party – alcohol – dancing – more alcohol – a bet – the deep-tanned athletic prize lying here by my side. Pulling her hair out of my mouth I ran my fingers along her skin fantasizing she was Silvia from my dream, Silvia whom I hadn’t seen for almost a month. I realized how deeply I must have been struck when even Silvia’s phantom could compete with living breathing luxury goods. The goods stirred.

“Hello,” she murmured.

In answer I began kissing her face and brow. She arched her head away from me with a blissful expression and I ran my lips down her neck. Then I pulled away.

“You were sublime, darling,” I said, looking her in the eyes. “What’s your name?”

Two minutes later I was pulling on my trousers in the corridor outside her flat. To think that a girl could take so much offence at such a simple question! I finished getting dressed and took the lift. As it slid down the shaft I began to consider taking serious steps for finding Silvia again. I was pretty damn sure that she wouldn’t throw me out of her flat.

The cell-phone is the greatest idea since the pick-up line. Actually, pick-up lines are a stupid idea, but in the right hands a cell-phone can be a magic wand for conjuring up instant dates. I scanned my directory and selected ‘Lin,’ one of my numerous ex-girlfriends.

“What’s up,” chirped a voice on the other side.

“Hello Lin,” I said. “Are you free this evening?”

There was a pause on the other end. Then Lin said, “I do have a boyfriend, you know.”

“Glad to hear it. Now are you free this evening or not. I need a woman’s advice.”

That got her attention.

“Oh, I, er, I’d love to come, but Reg and I were thinking of going out someplace.”

‘You made that up,’ I thought.

“Cancel it,” I said. “This is important.” And then, as an afterthought, I added, “Reggie can tag along if you really want.”

“No, that’s okay. We can go out another time and—“

“Fine. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“Alright. See you then.”

“And be ready! Bye.” I hung up. Always be the one who ends the conversation, that’s my motto.

* * *

We sat opposite each other, sipping our cappuccinos. Our eyes met. She looked down, but I continued looking at her so that when she risked a glance she immediately dropped her eyes and blushed.

“So how’s your love life?” I said. “Hectic?”

“It’s very quiet and pleasant, actually. Reg is very kind to me.”

“Sounds like a fun person to be with,” I said, allowing just the tiniest trace of sarcasm to flavour the tone.

“He is fun, and you’ve no right to talk about him like that. You don’t even know him.”

I just smiled.

“Of course,” I said. “I was just testing you.”

“So what is it you wanted?“

I waited till she took a sip of cappuccino.

“It’s you I want, Lin,” I whined in high-pitched falsetto. “I found I just couldn’t live without you. Please come back to me!”

She sprayed the cloth as she almost choked trying to swallow and giggle at the same time. I grinned and handed her a paper napkin. At last she managed to speak.

“Can’t you be serious for just one minute?”

“Okay then.”

I looked at her intensely. She was wiping her mouth with the napkin. I leaned towards her over the table and whispered hoarsely, “I need to stash ten kilos of heroin at your flat for three days. Your cut is ten percent. Is it a deal?”

She froze with the napkin halfway to the table. I leaned back and burst out laughing. She threw the napkin at me.

“Just one minute, that’s all I ask!” she said.

I made a show of struggling to control my laughter.

“You really are intolerable, you know. Now please tell me what it was you wanted to ask my ‘advice’ about?”

“I want a girl,” I said, “and I don’t know how to get her.”

“Well you have to win her heart, don’t you?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Done that, been there, but right now I don’t know where to find her.”

“Who is she? A transatlantic stewardess?”

“She’s Silvia Orire, regional vice-miss and absolutely gorgeous,” I said.

“You always were modest in your tastes, weren’t you?”

Lin leaned back for a moment to consider.

“If she’s a vice-miss then she’ll quite likely be into modelling. Cosmetics firms and magazines often contract beauty contest winners.”

I smacked my brow, irritated beyond belief that I hadn’t thought of this obvious fact first.

“Say no more! She’s as good as mine!” I yelled, leaping up. I rushed round the table and kissed Lin on the cheek. “And the cappuccinos are on me!”

* * *

And I became an Internet stalker. At the newsagents I had found her face beaming from the front-cover of a fashionable woman’s magazine. It now beamed from my wall. I scoured the Net, looking for every reference to her I could find. I discovered her professional website and spent an hour drooling over her photos. Then I found her personal website and my jaw almost dislocated itself from my face. All I had to do was email her and then it would be a straight run to the finish line.

I started to type ‘Hey Silvia, you remember me from that party we were at? Maybe we could get together sometime.’ I stopped and deleted everything I’d written so far. I didn’t want to end up sounding like a boring, unoriginal twerp. Definitely not. I remembered hearing that generally speaking, it often helps to be absolutely honest.

I stared at the screen for a moment and then wrote, “Silvia, I’m madly in love with you. Please come straight to my flat so we can have passionate sex together again and again and again.” I looked at the screen in disgust. That was really going to win her over, wasn’t it?

I rewrote the letter, then rewrote it again. With every rewrite it got worse. My last recollection, before I collapsed exhausted, was of staring bleary-eyed at a blank email sometime around four in the morning.

* * *

I was chatting online with three women simultaneously. Their aliases were PortuGal, BlueIce and 2Nice, respectively. My fingers flew over the keyboard in a blur as I goaded and teased them everyway I knew how. And they were fighting back like bitches chasing a rat, enjoying every minute of it.

PortuGal: why r u teasing me like this?!
BlueIce: U r sooo bad
2Nice: Noone has ever said that to me!

I answered all of them the same. ‘Because you’re a spoiled little brat and you deserve it.’

They sent a flurry of emoticons. I wrote: ‘What do you look like?’ Then immediately added ‘Type faster!’

PortuGal: im 50kg/170cm with long black hair

Me: I’ll bet you’re really 100kg/120cm and bald ;P

BlueIce: my hair is black and my eyes are blue

Me: Look like you’ve been in a fight, do you?

Me: No wonder you don’t want to show me your photo.

2Nice: Just imagine the sexiest thing alive ;)

Me: No doubt preferable to the real thing, eh?

Within a minute I had three photos, which I proceeded to make fun of in as many ways as possible. Then I accused them of sending fake photos and declared I wouldn’t believe they were real unless they showed me proof. All three turned on their web cams. PortuGal and BlueIce had dark hair and black cheap-looking glittery dresses. They might have been sisters. 2Nice had deep chestnut coloured hair and a sexy tight-fitting outfit.

PortuGal: now u see me, what do u want me 2 do??

Me: You know EXACTLY what YOU want to do ;)

BlueIce: what do u think? need any more proof???

Me: Yes. You have to show me the strawberry-shaped birthmark before I’ll believe you. ;)

2Nice: Imagination can’t compare to the real thing, eh?

She really was quite cute and smiling in a smug way so I answered her:

I prefer women who are less frigid.

In a moment my screen was transformed into a sensual orgy. PortuGal, who was showering her screen with kisses, suddenly pushed her head right through the screen. Her dress tore away as she pulled herself out of my monitor and onto my lap. The next moment BlueIce had joined her and started to pull my shirt off. As it fell to the floor, they parted for 2Nice who seemed to swim right out of the screen, her hands pushing them to the side with a perfect breaststroke. She was on me, kissing my neck and body, pushing me backwards. As I arched in her grasp, I was suddenly confronted with Silvia, staring at me from the magazine cover on my wall. Her hair swirled and lit up like a glorious sun, transfiguring me with sudden awe. I thrust out my arms towards her, knocking the other three girls back into the screen. They disappeared wailing and I collapsed onto my keyboard.

* * *

I woke with my face pressed against something hard and knobbly. I pushed myself up and stared at the monitor in front of me. There was an email filled with random characters. Suddenly a window popped up. ‘Connecting to server…’ Then ‘Sending message…’ I stared in disbelief as the text changed to ‘Your message has been successfully sent to Silvia Orire.’

“Whu…?’ I said.

I looked down and realized what must have happened. As I had pushed myself up, my left hand had pressed ‘Tab’ switching the interface to the send button. My right hand had pressed enter and sent it. The fact that I had pressed a whole load of other buttons at the same time did not seem to worry my computer, which had in accordance with Murphy’s Law of Computing interpreted my actions in the most frustrating manner possible. I had just sent the most exquisite girl I’d ever met an email full of rubbish. How sublime! If I knew her current number I could call her and have my text-to-speech program read it to her too, just to show her I was in dead earnest.

When a day starts as bad as that, it rarely gets better. I was going to be late for work so I skipped breakfast. My car was almost out of petrol so I had to stop at a pump, wait ten minutes for my turn in the queue, and therefore come even later. My boss was in a foul mood and threatened to sack me ‘if it ever happened again.’ Brainless ass. The way things were going I decided to postpone my quest for Silvia and just try to have a good time that evening. I went to a punk disco and flirted with three gothic birds so cheap and nasty they might have come straight from my dream. We got gloriously horribly drunk together, so it seemed the natural thing to do, to make love together in the toilets. The bouncer must have had a different opinion because he threw us out. One of the girls (don’t ask me her name) suggested we go over to her place and ‘get high.’ You’ve got to draw the line somewhere so I declined, saying I had to go to work tomorrow. Then I drove home. Thank God I didn’t meet the police (or anyone else for that matter). I dragged myself into bed and collapsed, a black lump spread-eagled against crumpled white sheets.

* * *

For reasons of decency, I won’t go into what I dreamed that night. Besides, it’s none of your business. Suffice to say I awoke at four in the morning, sitting bolt upright to see Silvia staring at me from the wall. I relaxed, set my alarm clock and fell asleep.

At work that day I made good use of my time to find out about Silvia’s agent from the Internet. I would visit the agent that afternoon and see if I could find a way to contact Silvia. I smiled. Today would be different.

I never got to the agent. Instead a miracle happened. I met Silvia in the street. Alright, maybe it wasn’t such a miracle considering she was just leaving her agent’s office, but you didn’t expect it either, did you?

“Silvia!” I called, unable to believe my eyes.

She spun around, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Hullo,” she said. “Where have you been hiding all this time?”

“You mean where was I seeking all this time,” I said. “I tried to call you but you were away.”

A rather sly smile slid over her face.

“So now you’ve found me, what do you think?”

“Almost as sexy as in my dreams, but less convincing.”

“You dream about me?” she said. “What kind of dream?”

“Nightmares, all of them,” I said and grinned.

She smiled and her eyes said ‘I don’t believe you.’

An idea crossed my mind.

“Say, I’m throwing a party tomorrow. Would you like to come?”

She tilted her head and frowned.

“Hmm… I’m rather busy tomorrow evening. It’s not really convenient.”

“What about the day after – would that be okay?”

“That would be better, yes.”

And she gave me a look. In a moment I realized the test, the pitfall and the incredible blunder I had just made.

“You see, I like to party the whole weekend,” I said in a last ditch attempt to cover up. “Sometimes I party non-stop from Friday night to Monday morning.”

She looked blankly at me, and I felt my ears turn red.

“So you’re coming to my, uh, Sunday party then,” I said. “Can I pick you up at six?”

She considered. “Half past six would suit me better.”

I was too flustered to argue so I just said “Right. Can you give me your number in case I need to call you? That’s assuming the one you gave me previously is still no good.”

“I can never remember it,” she said, smiling sweetly, “but if you give me yours I’ll call you and you’ll get it that way.”

“Right. Here you are.”

I gave her my number.

“I’ve got be running along now, so see you then,” she said.

I licked my lips and was going to kiss her cheek, but she turned away to leave.

“Bye,” I called out after her.

* * *

I invited all my best friends, having made them first promise a solemn oath not to ask her for her number. I then went out and bought a load of food and drink, taking care to get some pickled onions. I tidied up my flat and that’s saying something. To my dismay I didn’t have anything clean to wear, so I went out again and bought a new shirt and trousers, cool and casual. I made every preparation that could reasonably be made; I left nothing to chance. This was going to be the perfect party.

* * *

She phoned me at quarter past six to say that she wasn’t ready yet and whether I could pick her up at seven o’clock. I said “yes” and added ‘Silvia’ to my phone’s magic list. It annoyed me though, because I wouldn’t be able to greet all my friends personally. I made a call and asked one of my mates to fill in for me. I wouldn’t normally stand for this kind of thing, but I had a nasty suspicion that if I’d have said ‘no,’ she would have stood me up.

I arrived at seven sharp, but she still wasn’t ready. After about five minutes a policeman informed me I was parking in a ‘no parking’ area and would I please remove my vehicle. I argued that I was allowed to park for the minimum length of time necessary for loading or unloading my vehicle, and that it wasn’t my fault if the cargo needed an extra ten minutes to get dressed. The policeman smirked and fined me. Silvia came out of her flat and got in the car, while the policeman remarked that now that my ‘cargo’ had been ‘loaded,’ I had best be off. I stalled the engine and swore. The policeman, who appeared to be enjoying himself, asked to see my driving licence. I handed it to him resisting the temptation to ask him if he hadn’t got anything better to be doing with his time, like say catching bank robbers or drug dealers or something.

“Fresh out of driving school,” he commented loudly, as though it were last week and not two years ago that I passed my driving test. I flexed my fingers on the wheel and writhed until he handed me back my licence.

“Do your seatbelt up and drive carefully, son,” he said, to which I smiled wanly and nodded.

I clipped it on and jerked the car forward as I finally made my escape. I didn’t dare look at Silvia the whole trip.

She was the star of the party, a burning beacon of glory in my grubby little flat. All my friends hit on her and she gave at least three of them her number. I love my friends. Gradually, one by one, they took their leave, the last one leaving with a wink while she was in the lavatory. I put on Bad Love by Bernard Allison, pulled out a bottle of chilled vintage wine and took a seat. The toilet flushed. I uncorked the wine and poured two glasses.

“I ought to be going,” she said as she came out.

“You’ll take a glass of wine with me before you go, won’t you?” I said.

“Very well.”

She sat down. I held up my glass so that I was looking at her through the wine. She was like an amorous water nymph, rising from the depth of sweetness.

“Beautiful,” I said.

She took her glass and drew in the wine’s fresh bouquet, then looked up. “I think I know where you’re trying to lead this.”

“You do?” I said, lowering my glass, but not my eyes.

“Yes, and I just want to say that it’s been a lovely evening and I respect you very much, but we are never going to be more than friends.”

My world froze and I had a moment of perfect realization. I had only two possibilities: the first was to run to the window and throw myself out, thus forever distancing myself from my pathetic failure to get laid. I chose the second.

“Then let’s be friends,” I said, “great friends!” I raised my glass. “A toast to our friendship!”

We touched glasses.

“I’m sorry to disappoint your expectations in me,” she said, unsure how to take my reaction.

“Don’t worry. I know just how you can make it up to me. You’re a model, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So you must have a great many friends who are also models?”

“Naturally.”

“Great, because now that we’re friends, you’re going to introduce me to all of them!”

And to the sound of her merry laughter I took a draught of the most amazing, the most refreshing, the most delicious wine of my life.

The Wine List

The Cast	The Wine
Silvia Orire	Irsai Oliver This is the first wine I ever felt passionate about. I discovered that when combined with pickled onions it creates a heavenly experience that fails description. It irks me that to this day I cannot recall the year of its vintage.
Girl Whose Name I Forgot	Wish I Knew A beautiful red wine, whose name I have alas also forgotten.
Lin	Ryzlink Rýnský A classic Czech table wine, originally from Germany. Simple, white and boring.
PortuGal & BlueIce	Modrý Portugal An average red wine, two bottles of which I enjoyed with some friends one evening.
2Nice	Cabernet Sauvignon 2003 A delicious red wine I enjoyed the same evening before going onto the cheaper ‘Blue Portuguese’.
Three Gothic Girls	Some Red Wine Memorable only by the piercing hangover I suffered the following day.
Silvia Orire	Irsai Oliver 2003 The second time I had this wine I took care to take note of the vintage. I believe it was a different year than the first time, but can’t be sure. Anyway, I took it to a party were it clashed horribly with all the sweet stuff. Even the pickled onions I’d brought with me were sweet!

But then why worry when the world is full of so many other wonderful wines to choose from? Somewhere out there the perfect wine is waiting for you! Just make sure you don’t spoil the moment when you meet or let it pass you by.

Disclaimer:

This story in no way represents the opinions or lifestyle of the author on women in general, nor is it intended to promote promiscuity or sexual/emotional irresponsibility. The author is in no way responsible for your death by STDs, unwanted pregnancies or loss of sleep due to imitating the behaviour of characters here depicted. ;-)