Saturday, February 17, 2018

Greedy

Blaine and I started out at a winery. He chose this one because it has a large sunroom with a western view, perfect for watching the sunset.

I asked Blaine if wine had been an acquired taste for him. I have doubts that I’ll ever learn to like it. “I started out with high quality wines which makes a difference. I’ve dropped the ball on introducing you to wine.”

“How did you know where to start?” He told me he took a four-week wine appreciation class offered by a well-respected wine shop. He went backwards, then, telling me he had read a magazine article about a vintner using traditional methods to produce small batches. Curious about wine making before modern technology, he read a memoir of a French winemaker that was written in the ‘50s, and then he read a book that focused on the the science and was more technical. He said he became interested in the process first and eventually became curious about the product.

As the sky became streaky with color, Blaine moved his chair to my side of the table so he could see the sunset too. We continued to talk about the books he’d read, and we talked about instinct and science, experience and process.

Over the years I’ve been friends with a few guys who liked conversations that explored different topics from multiple angles. I’ve never dated anyone like that, though. Thinking back, I’ve always chosen—actually been chosen by and then accepted—men who were all wrong for me. Thank goodness someone else chose Blaine for me. As all this played in my mind, I was looking at him, absently wondering whether he could possibly be all he seemed and if I’d be able to tell by studying his face. “What?” he asked. I blinked, realizing I’d been staring—giving him The Blaine Move.

I shook my head and said softly, “I just like you.” Instantly, I wished I hadn’t said it and was whipping up a quip to cover it up.

Blaine leaned forward, pressing against me. He covered my hand with his, brought his other hand up to wrap mine from the other side. “I like you, too.”

Sure, it wasn’t news to either of us, but there’s something about actual words.

Once the last of the sunset disappeared, we left. We went to dinner at a pretty little place that has a lot of woodwork and starched white cloths over the tables. It’s divided into several small dining rooms. No matter how busy it is, it feels like it’s just you and a few other tables of people. I’ve learned that Blaine likes quiet places. We have that in common.

It seems like Blaine is always asking for my stories, and I don’t get to hear many of his. Tonight I wanted to keep the focus on him. Thinking back to our first conversation, the day he brought Diet Coke over to Paul and Eve’s, I remember it came up that our dads fought in Europe during WWII. It’s unusual for me to meet someone near my age whose parents are/were the same age as mine. I was born very late in their lives. Age wise they could have been my grandparents. I was always a little bit different in my thinking from others my age, because I'd been raised by parents of a different generation.

I asked about where he grew up and his family. The more he told me, the clearer it became that we were raised with very similar values but somewhat different sensibilities. Blaine is more conservative than I am, more traditional. I had already figured that out. I’m sure he’s figured it out too. Time will sort out if it matters.

We went to my house after dinner. I pulled a book for him to take home. It’s the one I’d told him about the day he came to Eve’s when I was taking care of Izzy. He held it up. “The book that made me think we might have enough in common to interest you in going out with me.”

Thinking back, I remember wanting to talk to him again. “I was interested.”

“I didn't pick that up. You didn’t show any interest until our third date.” He smirked, “Uh, that is your second date, my third date.” I’ll never live it down.

What was our second/third date? The symphony? How was I different that night, I wondered. “Well, I show interest now,” I stated.

He wobbled his head. “You have your moments.” He smiled.

“Moments?” I pretended to be wounded.

“If you would like to practice—add to your repertoire of moments—I’ll be glad to offer encouragement, recommendations…”

I laughed. “I’ve already presented you with a book tonight. Don’t be greedy.”


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