Pink Dandelion Quarterly_Fall 2020

Hidden Vines

By Victoria 

He did say Hidden Vines, right?

I fidget nervously with the stem of my wine glass on the table in front of me. Is twenty-four minutes too long of a wait for a date?

Yes. My thoughts answer for me.

I let out an agitated huff and down the rest of my Pinot. It's my third glass since I've arrived, and I'm starting to feel the chilly alcohol take its course through my veins. He probably just got held up by work again. He is a doctor; at least, that's what he told me.

I'm beginning to think that this man was too good to be true in the first place. What a waste of four months worth of conversation.

I flag the waiter down, yet again, and request another glass of white wine.

"Are you waiting on someone?" The waiter asks in a thick, French accent.

"No," I sigh, my hopefulness still lingering for a brief moment. "I guess I'm not."

His blue eyes flicker with embarrassment before saying, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to wait at the bar, then. We have other reservations." He explains sheepishly, gesturing to the group of expectant people near the front of the restaurant.

My cheeks flush a deep red, and I tuck a loose strand of my snowy-blonde hair behind my right ear before rising from my seat — a little unsteadily, I might add, because of the wine — and reach for my purse that I placed on the floor before I sat down. My balance falters for a millisecond, but clearly, that's all it takes for my bag to fall from my shoulder, sideswiping the newly-emptied wine glass from the table.

The cup crashes to the deck of the rooftop restaurant, and the loud sound of shattering glass fills the air with an artless noise.

Everyone turns to look, their senses overtaken by the racket that I've ensued. My face heats up again, and I mumble multiple apologies to the waiter as I stoop down to help clean up the mess.

"It's fine, don't worry about it," he says, agitated. I can tell he's more frustrated with my presence than the mess I've made.

I stand back up in order to make my escape to the bar, avoiding the strenuous eyes that follow me all the way to the other end of the restaurant. Upon arriving, I plop down on an empty stool, and try my best to calm my fast beating heart.

"Just a Pinót Noir, please," I ask the bartender, and exhale shakily. I've never been the best at public obscurities; almost every time I'm out, I draw some sort of unwanted attention. Just last week I met my friends at a lounge, and when I stood up to go to the women's restroom, a waiter passed by with a Bananas Foster. Needless to say, they had to make another dessert, and I had to change into a new shirt that wasn't on fire.

"Rough night?" A low voice sounds from beside me.

I let out a sigh before taking a sip from the glass of wine the bartender set before me, careful not to drop it. "You have no idea."

A deep, low chuckle. "Don't worry. We've all been there."

When I finally look at the man who's conversing with me, it's in disbelief.

The bar lights reflect off his dark, wavy, chestnut brown hair, making it seem lighter than it actually is. His green, hazel eyes flicker with amusement while he watches me intently, and his gray button down and dark-wash denim compliment the atmosphere and his muscular build simultaneously.

I try to not let my eyes linger over his strong chest or flit across his tense jawline, which is engulfed in a light, scruffy stubble.

He lifts an eyebrow at me, a smirk playing around the edges of his mouth, and I turn my gaze back to my drink.