You order a glass of wine.
Red to be exact.
Our best selling red due to it’s low price point and Italian vintage.
You do not look like someone who can be enticed to try the beautiful complexity of the unknown varietal just below. Desperately ignoring the sweat gathering between my shoulder blades, a witty comment and genuine smile make their way up from some deep reserve of strength. You feel flattered, looked after, you wait in anticipation of your wine.
“How is it possible to run out of wine glasses?” I mutter with vengeance under my breath.
The private party upstairs slammed us in full force tonight. Unprepared for the intensity of their requests, we hang on only by a thread of composure and experience.
Not even the dish pit has a glass in it that can be washed.
Clear a table, drop the glass in the kitchen, “Can you wash this for me?? Thank you!” Back to the bar the wine stock is low. Upstairs to the office. The sweat on my back fairly pours as I try desperately not to sprint up the stairs. Cursing, I pull bottles from the shelves, trip over the bicycle leaning against the desk and lock the door firmly behind.
The glass now clean.
Hot, steaming from the dishwasher.
Fill it with ice.
Tap fingers with impatience.
Dump the ice.
Polish the glass.
The stem is still warm.
The sweatiness from my neck threatens to creep into my eyes and turn into great heaving sobs of overwhelmed.
Gliding now, my composure enters the dining room, leaving her frantic twin sister behind. Gracefully, composure delivers the glass. Another smile. Firmly ignoring the desire to cry, we continue, as if everything played out exactly the way we hoped that it would.
As if it didn’t just take ten minutes for you to get your wine.
As if the entire illusion of perfection wasn’t about to shatter at any instant.