To taste wine is an art.  Never would he say to his current lover, (Anna, a nice woman, very attractive but superficial regarding the finer pleasures of life), that to taste wine is an art. She would look at him, he knew,  with those incredible violet eyes and try not to laugh.  A woman who tries not to laugh is so unattractive when holding a very expensive crystal wine glass in her delicate hand.  The very expensive red glow in the delicate crystal globe sloshes around like a well-bodied beer because of her momentary lapse of decorum; unacceptable.

A well-mannered waiter met him at the rather low door, ushering him to a small, well used, round, wooden table in a red-black lit room where other patrons whispered over well laden plates and full wine glasses.  The ancient Vermont inn had its charm and reminded him of the lady, (not his current lover, mind you) he was to meet.  He thrilled at the thought of seeing her again just so he could assure himself he was aging well.  She would not age well, her youth was her strength but now they were both well into middle age.  But what would Anna think of him, meeting another woman in a town in Northern Vermont?

He took his seat.  He was early, by her suggestion.  Her note encouraged him to try the wine.  The red she wrote, is exceptional and memorable.  She would meet him in the evening and become reacquainted.  They had parted on good terms—one of the few in his life.  He was excited to see her again, over his first passion; wine.

When he was younger, he had just enough money to live and to taste wine.  A few women would sleep with him because they found him attractive.  There were the occasional (he cringed to use the term, so crass) one-night stands for the wine he introduced them to, making him irresistible.  He tried to avoid such relationships, women needed savoring and appreciating and sipped.  Nor was he egotistic; the wine did the job, not his manners, his mind or his body so he had nothing to boast about in the knee bumping male club that so many men felt compelled to strut about in.

No, women were beautiful just like wine but attachment was out of the question.  A bottle of deep, rich, red wine that sits upon the shelf is a sin.  Wine by its very creation, artistic evolution and existence demands time, thought and undistracted taste buds.   Empty bottles are a somewhat crass end but oh, there are more discoveries.  The problem is, he did not inherit a vast fortune, and not suited to drive the chariots of the business of gain he found himself disadvantaged when wine and women are so attractive in this life.

He smiled to himself, looking out at the dingy, wet, street: “Wine and women.”, The connotation of that statement should not sum up a selfish snob or cold-blooded lover in the minds of the world—female minds in point—for he was an exception to the statement.  He did not want to decide between one or the other—he wanted both and he wanted the best of both.  So what was he to do?  The only thing he could do—both within moderation.

He had to admit that when he was in his thirties; he spent too much time alone.  He refrained from younger women—unteachable in the art of wine tasting and too fast, too virginal, too needy.  He took comfort with some older women, but they often found him comical in a way he found insulting.  But the woman he traveled to meet, in this romantic little Vermont inn, ah, he had been close to falling in love with her.  Until one night, alone and with an exquisite, dry white, he wrote a poem about what love was.

Was.

He wrote that one word on a yellow pad of paper and stared at it through the entire bottle.

“Was.”

The next day, he met her for lunch and ordered everything red.  The filet, the sauces, the wine and broke it off with her.  She didn’t cry over the time they had spent.  Knowing the time would come, she explained, she had prepared herself for the breakup.  She had no hopes their relationship would last to marriage, children, Christmases before the fireplace.  Thanking him for the time they had together, eating the dinner ordered for her she left him without looking back.

He was astounded.  He watched her walk out of the restaurant and never heard from her again.  And 20 years later he received a letter from her.  He knew beyond a doubt he must see her again.  The old photo, she enclosed, the two of them together, wineglasses in hand.  They were at some party they attended so he found himself intrigued.  She had kept a photo of them together.   He looked up the address, the town, the place she showed and assured her in a return letter he would be there.

He tasted the wine the waiter brought; a taste all of its own, a raw, exciting taste, that made him tense and feel within him an urge to pace.  He felt himself immerse in a pleasure that made him edgy and… (could it be possible?) feel just a little mean, just a little rough.  She was no doubt still beautiful in a homely faded sort of way. Probably married.  Who but married people live in Vermont?  Perhaps she and her husband had an upscale bed-and-breakfast.  If she had children, perhaps they were off to college, getting a degree in hotel management.

No, he had to stop.  He took another sip of wine and felt again that edge that good hurt of taste he never experienced before.  He wanted to capture that actual taste upon his tongue and not the overwhelming afterglow of emotion the wine brought for him.  A sweet grape, an almost euphoric floral start at the tip of his tongue that chilled to an ash, an almost wonton woman taste that shimmered down his throat and warmed his belly.  He felt as if her hand (was he confusing the wine’s taste with the woman already? That amused his more clinical mind) was just above his belt, flat, warm and steady.

“Hello Roger,”  The voice was as he remembered it, soft but now with an edge of worldly knowledge about it.  He started and looked up.  She wore a tight fitting dress, a deep burgundy.  Her skin was a soft glowing cream and her hair, now long, was glossy down her back.  She had not aged at all, the beauty of her youth had not abandoned her as he thought it would.  He felt himself stammer, stopped himself, stood, and proffered her a chair.

“Always the gentleman.”

His astonishment at her beauty kept him in silence.  Could it be the same woman?  She sat, looked up at him; without a doubt, she was the same woman.

“How are you, Roger?”

“Good, I’m good.”

“Do you like the wine?”

“Yes, I’ve tasted nothing like it.”

“Nor will you again.”

He remembered little—except that he cannot face the light of day and is driven to drink rather than savor the taste of his desires.