Dio Days

The Sour Grapes

Dionysus stood behind the bar of his little establishment, The Sour Grapes, dreamily polishing a crystal tumbler he had already cleaned at least seven times; it was hard to focus on anything other than the heady air in the room. Patrons were everywhere, laughing and drinking, kissing in some of the corners where they thought they couldn't be seen—or simply didn't give a care. But, of course, he saw everything. Some of the other gods needed temples or holy spaces to funnel their worshippers; Dionysus, though? All Dio needed was a bar, some music, and as many warm, smiling bodies as could fit into the room—Fire Marshall Code be damned.

He looked across the room at the neon piece that was hanging in the front window: A cluster of vividly purple grapes hanging high above the tips of an outstretched hand. The name came from the old folktale about a fox who, when he was unable to trick his way to getting a group of some rather delicious looking grapes, gave up the endeavor with a dismissal of the grapes he had moments ago craved—saying they were probably sour anyways, and not worth eating. Dio, however, being the god of wine and festivities, would never let anything less than the perfect grapes into his drinks.

The patrons didn't know this, of course (not that they cared, especially the kissing couples), nor did he only serve wine. He remembered the days (How many centuries ago was it?) when all that overflowed from the pitchers was wine, and it leaked down into the fountains and through lips and between curves warming beneath the hot Grecian sun. But the times had changed, and now the vineyards were everywhere, not just on the Mediterranean coast; and now, drinks came in bottles, boxes and cans; the market was absolutely saturated with alcohol. While that made him feel especially adored, it also meant he had to work far harder to keep the reputation high for his little locale. He had heard it all: Hole in the wall, dive, speak-easy, den of misfits—he didn't care what they called it, as long as they had the money and the mouth for his product.

There was a mass of giggles and tears that was attempting to pass itself off as a man on the stage across the bar, trying—and failing—to perform a poem. He probably thought it sounded romantic; the jeering crowd thought otherwise, judging from their hisses. The man tried to whip his head to face the nearest heckler, but immediately lost his balance, his legs going out from under him, sending him straight into the table immediately before the stage. The room was dead silent for a moment as three pints of beer and a glass of aged wine spilt onto the floor (and onto the man)—but the silence was broken by the sobbing laughter of the patrons who had just lost their drinks, who joined the man on the floor as they laughed until they could no longer stand. Dio shook his head, grinning helplessly, and motioned for one of the staff—a pretty young blonde (I can't help but hire the pretty ones, but damn me if I can remember the names)—to take the new round of drinks that he had already poured to the heap of patrons, and to make sure their resident poet made it home okay. She smiled (Oh yes, her name is Jessica), gave him a wink, and slid the tray onto her palm effortlessly, swaying away towards the crowd, immediately cheering a few of them up.

"Remember Dio, you're married," he muttered to himself, going back to polishing the same glass for about the ninth time.

He heard the bell on the door ring as a customer entered, and without looking up, gave his customary introduction in his best sing-song voice:

"Welcome to The Sour Grapes, where the best flavors are never out of reach for my customers! How may I—" But his voice faltered before he had finished.

A stunning young man stood near the doorway, all roughly five feet of him,. He was taking in the lights, smoke and sounds of the room with mischievous eyes; they were hazel, but when the light shifted, they seemed green--alive. A dark brown mess of wavy hair tumbled around his face, not quite long enough to touch his shoulder, but just long enough to hide a canvas of freckles Dio could see even from his spot behind the bar. He seemed...familiar, somehow--but also startlingly shocking in his allure. Dio was rarely ever struck speechless--he had seen a lot of shit in his many centuries around the world--and yet, here he was, hoping the stranger would speak so he could finally say something.