Short Story: Love Opiate

Short Story: Love Opiate

Pinot noir. A little citrus, maybe some strawberry. Passion fruit and just a flutter of nutty Edam cheese. And Pinot is such a hard grape to grow. Thin skinned, temperamental, ripens early. It needs constant care and attention. Oh and its flavors, just the most haunting, brilliant, thrilling and so... ancient on our planet. So alike her.

Thea. That was her name. A tuneful and harmonic name. Starting with a choir and ending in a solo. She had long curly blond hair that bounced in her walk with bangs just short enough to show the blue watery eyes. Her nose had a slight bump like a dune in the desert, like a wave of the ocean. And her smile was a marvel among diamonds.

I take a sip of the wine. Its flavor recalls my past.

I still remember what I loved on her. It was the motion of her arms, the span of her hips, the joy in her steps and the fire of her lips. In fantasies I saw the sun in her smile, the bantering of her eyes and the grace of her style. She gave me a feeling of infinity, of immortality. For her I would race to win and stop just before finish. For her I would give up all answers to questions.

“Voulez-vous ordonner plus?” the waiter asked. Much to my knowledge I already finished my drink.

“S'il vous plaît,” I said and tipped the glass towards him. The bubbling voice of the pouring wine pulled me back in.

Thea’s voice was silent, comforting. She spoke with ease and reassurance. But there was determination hidden behind all this. She never stopped until she finished nor did she begin if not asked. She listened as a teacher listens to her students, like a shrink to his patients. She nodded in between, smiled gently if amused. She never laughed out loud, not even to my knowledge.

Some like to think of a wine bottle as alive. If you open it today it will taste differently than if a year ago or a year from now. It evolves like a being, gaining complexity. Others like to look back on those who made it. How they tended and nurtured the vine, how they carefully picked the grapes.

“Encore, s'il vous plaît!”

We met in a Californian diner. One of those in a 50’s style with a combination of red leather sofas and smooth white walls. Full of Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe pictures that did not fit the era. I was the waiter and she my customer. The first time I picked her order she grinded naughtily at my poor English. She returned daily even though she was not local, regularly ordering our famously disgusting coffee and an even slightly more revolting brownie.

The brand new Starbucks next door stole most of our costumers so the only other regulars were loyal town residents. And even they came only because Starbucks does not offer beer.

One day, a Tuesday I believe, her pick-up truck broke down and since a storm was closing in I offered her a ride. It seemed as if the raindrops on the windshield were our chatty third passenger. When the pouring rain intensified I was forced to pull over. I turned my face towards her and found her eyes waiting. Words began blowing out of our mouths. We opened up and with a series of laughter and tears we displayed our worlds. The differences to us became just another fallen leaf.

I only intended to serve for a month, no longer, for I needed the money to resume my American road trip. And than an all-American girl prolonged my stay. Her family was conservative, Christian and I a poor agnostic free spirit.

We seldom saw eye to eye. I continued to work. Together we saved money.

And when I sold my 69’ Cadillac Eldorado we had enough to elope. She dreamed of Paris so that is where we went.

I was holding on to the bottle now. Tears were sliding down my cheeks. I gulped down the Pinot without consideration. Drowning my pain in liquor. Then memories smartened. My hole body ached and wine made it better. It was an opiate, my love opiate. The room started spinning, everything seemed dizzy, smudged. My head bowed a little, my eyes closed and I once more walked down the memory lane.

We made a nice life for ourselves in France. Paris is known as a father to the French and we soon felt adopted. Got ourselves a cozy apartment, pleasant and satisfying jobs. Thea became a curator and I a salesman. We bought a tiny car perfect for a big city. On today’s day it would have been two years since our getaway. For this special occasion I made big plans.

Just a couple of blocks away from us there was a fancy restaurant Thea much admired. Many times we have passed it and Thea has said to me with a glittery smile over her face and enthusiastic expectations in her voice, “Honey, there shall come a day when we will dine in there,” she cheerfully winked at me or gave me a sudden peck on the cheek and continued describing her next exhibition. My mind switched off at that point. There was silence. My vision on the other hand sharpened and my emotions amplified. Through the lightly tinted glass wall I observed those inside. They seemed like fairytale creatures, kings and queens, regaling on savory dishes. Invidious thoughts occupied me and obscured my mind. I became delirious with the pain my heart ache caused. Is there a worse feeling than the incapacity to fulfill your loved ones’ desires? I wanted to burst out. And I clenched my teeth – it was hard not to.

I conscientiously saved money and finally made enough for a reservation and a decent meal. I walked Thea to our car and neatly blindfolded her. She had no idea. I drove with the biggest smile on my face knowing that today I can, even if only for three hours, make her wishes come true.

After a while she leaned forward and whispered into my ear, “I too have a surprise for you mon chéri.” I made a surprised grimace forgetting how she cannot see. Her gentle hand caressed my neck.

I was only a turn away from the place, smiling along Thea’s quiet giggles, when a bus driver missed a red light, crashing into our car. We were thrown across the street head first into a gutter. It darkened before my eyes and then there was nothing. The sirens of the paramedics brought me back to life. I looked around and saw nothing but thick smoke. I started screaming her name, refusing to believe that she cannot answer. I was still screaming when the firemen pulled me out and I screamed even with an oxygen mask over my face. I suffered a mild concussion, ended up with a couple of stitches. A blank-faced doctor came to bring me the news. She died and so did my four months old daughter – her surprise. He sent me home to rest and to mourn.

Staggering out of that hospital felt like a dead man’s walk. I wondered around Paris like a vagabond. I could not go home for it felt like betrayal. So instead I went to celebrate our anniversary. Alone.

The bottle drops from my hand and I lean to pick it up. But the strength never comes. I fall onto the floor, hit my head and slice my wrist on the broken bottle. Whatever consciousness I still had was now gone. I could only hear faraway cries, “Aide, aide,...” which eventually turned into my own cries, “Thea,Thea,...”

I pass out.