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More Wine

Logan Markko

    Everything felt fuzzy after the second glass of merlot. Veronica’s throat burned, but the wine warmed her with a cool fire that smoldered nicely in the pit of her chest. She flagged down a waiter and ordered another glass.
    A young couple across the dining room was preparing to order. The woman studied a menu, while her boyfriend leaned in close to point out something delicious. He whispered something in her ear and she laughed.
    Veronica closed her eyes and tried to focus on the soft classical jazz playing over the restaurant’s speakers. It had been an hour since she’d sat down at the special table in the back corner of her and Ted’s favorite restaurant, and she was tired of waiting. When she opened her eyes, Ted was standing in front of her.
    “Sorry I’m late,” he said, shrugging off his coat. “Work was murder.” He handed her a bouquet of roses and kissed her cheek, scratching it with his goatee.
    The Spanx under Veronica’s skirt squeezed her flabby stomach and thighs, cutting into her skin. She’d suffered through a diet of kale smoothies and almonds for the better part of a month, all to lose five lousy pounds. If her husband had noticed, he hadn’t said so.
    Ted waved the waiter over. “Can we get another basket of breadsticks? More wine, too. My wife and I are celebrating our anniversary.”
    “Congratulations,” the waiter said. “You know what they say. Love is like fine wine... it only gets better with age.”
    Ted raised his empty glass in a toast, then bent his balding head to read the menu. He pronounced each item in an exaggerated Italian accent, jutting his jaw out like Marlon Brando in The Godfather. “Look how they massacred my boy!” he exclaimed, studying a picture of the shrimp alfredo.
    They’d been coming to this restaurant since their first date a decade ago and had made a habit of returning to mark important life events. Ted usually ordered lasagna. Veronica, the ravioli.
    Following a sudden impulse, she selected the gnocchi instead. The waiter collected their menus and bustled off to the kitchen.
    They made small talk while they waited for their food. Ted was swamped at the office and Veronica had a stack of essays to grade. She needed to renew her driver’s license soon and he had an ingrown toenail. They were supposed to get a foot of snow in a few days.
    Balloons decorated a nearby table. Veronica watched a toddler blow out the candles on his birthday cake while his parents took pictures.
    “When presents?” the boy asked, taking a bite of cake.
    “Soon,” his mother said, wiping chocolate frosting from the boy’s lips with a napkin. “Try to be patient.”
    When the waiter arrived with their food, Ted dug in. Veronica listened to him chew and slurp, sneaking glances at the birthday party between sips of merlot.
    Every month, her body reminded her how selfish she’d been for waiting. A few months turned into a few years until eventually, their lustful love-making sessions contorted into forced intimacy that Veronica dreaded almost as much as the prospect of being barren. The doctors said all they could do was keep trying, but most of the time Veronica couldn’t see the point.
    The waiter returned to refill their glasses. Veronica pushed the gnocchi around on her plate with a fork, thinking about the unopened paint cans sitting in the nursery across the hall from their bedroom.
    Ted shoved his plate to the side. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I was in the old neighborhood the other day. Do you remember the yellow house we rented when we first moved in together?”
    She nodded.
    “It used to be yellow. Now it’s blue. You expect people to plant flowers or remodel the bathroom, but there’s something about painting a house an entirely different color that feels wrong. I had to drive around the block a couple of times just to make sure I was looking at the right one.”
    Veronica’s head was swimming. She watched Ted’s lips move as he spoke, trying to concentrate on what he was saying. Leaning closer, she noticed a dried cut on his cheek and pictured him in the bathroom that morning, cursing his razor and dabbing at the wound with a cotton ball.
    “It had a porch swing and a fenced-in backyard for the dog,” Ted continued. He gulped his wine and pointed a breadstick at Veronica. “Why did we ever move?”
    “There wasn’t enough space.”
    Ted furrowed his brow. “Well, it was a good house. I miss it.” He pushed his glass away. “Excuse me. I’ve got to use the bathroom.”
    The toddler’s birthday party was over. A waiter had cleared away the empty plates and half-eaten cake and was wiping the table down with a dishrag. Veronica thought of the toddler and his parents. They were probably home and opening presents by now.
    She stood up and walked to the hallway where the bathrooms were. The women’s was unlocked, but she moved past it and knocked on the door of the men’s room, calling Ted’s name. When he opened the door, his face was wet and red. The water was still running in the sink. Veronica pushed him back into the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind her. She shoved him into the wall near the toilet and kissed him hard on the mouth. He tasted like merlot and lasagna.
    “Hurry,” she said, lifting her skirt. “Before someone comes.”

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