The Personification of Merlot

Zelda had revisited the Prose & Wine café several times – well, eleven times to be exact – over the last four months. And it was all purely motivated by the opportunity to hear him read just one more time. She couldn’t remember ever hearing a lovelier recitation of any piece of classical work. She was sure that his voice, laced with a lilting and beautiful English accent, was a gift from the Gods, derived in ancient times. She still did not know his real name, since he was known only as The Eloquent Englishman when he read.

She often wondered if there was anyone on the face of the earth who could read Shakespeare, Chaucer, Byron, Keats, or Milton with such stirring abandon? So enthralled was she by his rendering of any piece of prose, she knew he could have read a children’s book, and she would have still been enraptured by the melodic timbre of his voice. Of course, it did help just a wee bit that he was also quite appealing in his appearance. In fact, it helped a great deal and only added to the allure of his amazing voice.

Zelda herself wanted to write, and she wanted to do so badly. She wanted to write with passion, and she wanted it to be something that someone would want to reread again and again, because it was either so moving or enjoyable, they could not help but do so. And she wanted to write something like he would want to read aloud. Thus, she justified her repeated appearances at the Prose & Wine to see and listen to him by telling herself she was receiving the necessary inspiration to do just that. However, truth be told, she’d fallen, and she’d fallen hard for this man who read from the Classics so hauntingly, and yet, so beautifully, too.

Tonight, she had been tempted to stay home and not go to the Prose & Wine for a twelfth time. She was beginning to feel a bit conspicuous and slightly embarrassed about visiting so often when he was scheduled to read. She wondered if he could see right through her motive for coming, knowing it pertained to him. After much debate with herself all afternoon, she had decided she was being silly and presumptuous. He surely did not even know who she was, less alone realize she’d been to all of his readings at the Prose & Wine. So, after deciding that her fears were ill-based and inconsequential, she had decided to attend this evening for his twelfth reading. What could it hurt? He would never notice her, after all, and after a couple of more readings in New Orleans, he would be long gone, and much to her dismay, it was likely she would never see him or hear him read again.

Tonight, he was reading from Sir Walter Scott’s Lady of the Lake, and Zelda was so excited that she could scarce stand it. Sitting alone with a glass of French Merlot on her small table, she impatiently twirled and shook her foot as it hung draped across her slender leg. There were only about sixteen others here tonight, mostly couples. All the better, she thought to herself. She secretly and selfishly wished no one else had bothered to come so she could have enjoyed the evening with him solo. Picking up the wine glass, she took a long swallow of the burgundy Merlot, hoping it would help to quell her impatience and anticipation as she waited.

The lights in the tiny café grew dimmer with the exception of the one light focused on the makeshift stage area. Zelda immediately placed her wine glass back on the table and drew herself straighter in the chair, perched on the edge of her seat. He walked out from the back of the establishment and took a seat in the lone mahogany Mission Style chair after a casual nod and greeting for his small audience.

“Good evening. Tonight, we start with an excerpt from the Canto Fourth, Lady of the Lake by Sir Walter Scott, first published in 1810,” he said before he began to read.

“The rose is fairest when ‘t is budding new,

And hope is brightest when it downs from fears;

The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew

And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.”

Zelda listened intently to the words wrap fluidly around his eloquent tongue and spill forth into the still of the room. Despite the silliness of it, all her mind could seem to think upon was the “swooning” that was often detailed in Romance novels. She was fairly certain at this moment in time that she might swoon and faint fast away upon the floor of the Prose & Wine, so overcome was she by his recitation of the lovely prose. Fleeting thoughts of him bent over her lifeless body, attempting to resuscitate her lingered pleasantly in the back of her mind until she focused once again on the beautiful words and timbre of his voice.

And thus, the night ensued with various readings from Sir Walter Scott’s famous poem. Zelda did not think she stirred once during the entire night. So moved was she by the lovely poetry that she occasionally lifted a finger to wipe at a stray tear that fell upon her cheek. Ah, but she could live life in such a way, listening to such beautiful recitations by such a one as he.

As soon as he closed the book, the waiter made the rounds, replenishing everyone’s drink, including Zelda’s. As he poured a new glass of Merlot for her and stepped away, Zelda gasped. He was standing there, directly in front of her small table.

“Good evening,” he said and smiled. “Did you enjoy the reading tonight?”

Zelda was unsure from where she found her voice and the ability to return his smile, but she managed to do so without stammering like a timid schoolgirl.

“Yes, immensely. It was beautiful.” You are beautiful, she thought to herself.

“Excellent,” he said. “I’m so pleased you liked it.” He looked about the room for a minute before his gaze found hers again, and he continued. “I’ve noticed that you’ve managed to attend all my readings.”

Zelda felt a blush creep across her cheeks. “Yes,” she said. “I enjoy hearing you read.”

For mere moments, the two stared at one another, seemingly frozen in time. Blue eyes met green ones, and in the skip of a heartbeat, connected.

“May I?” he gestured to the chair.

“Oh, yes, certainly! Forgive my lack of manners,” Zelda said as she quickly moved her wine glass and the copy of Lady of the Lake she’d brought with her so that he could take a seat beside her. He motioned to the waiter so that he could order a drink. Zelda watched him, fairly certain she was in a dream. A wonderful dream, albeit, but still a dream.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having,” he said, motioning to her glass of Merlot.

Zelda was suddenly very self-conscious as the waiter brought her companion’s wine. Her slim, woolen skirt seemed shorter by the minute, and the burgundy turtle neck she’d worn seemed to bind her chest tightly, preventing an adequate flow of air. Nervously, she fidgeted with the stem of the wine glass, glancing up at him through her thick lashes to ensure he was, in fact, still there.

“You like Merlot then?” she asked, and then mentally kicked herself. Of course he liked Merlot. He had ordered it, hadn’t he? Stupid, silly question, she chided herself.

“Yes, I do,” he smiled, and a big dimple grew in his left cheek. “Such an approachable wine. Full-bodied and elegant while it goes with nearly every kind of food but also stands alone quite well. I like the sleek softness of it - fruity, velvety, and rich,” he added as he took a sip of the wine the waiter had placed before him.

And softly sensual, especially the way you partake of it, Zelda could not help but mentally note, watching his throat as he swallowed. My God, but had anyone ever been able to describe the deliciousness of a glass of Merlot in such a way? She was sure not. Indeed, the enunciation and the beauty in the description, rhythm, and flow of his words were like the velvety, rich smoothness of the wine personified.

He looked at her and extended his hand, “I’m Gawain.”

She responded, captivated by his beautiful smile, with one of her own. “Zelda,” she said as she felt the strength in his firm handshake.

“What a lovely name,” he said. “Quite different.”

She nodded. “Mother was a huge fan of Fitzgerald.”

“Ah, yes. Well, it certainly suits you. My mother was obviously a fan of the Arthurian legends.” He watched her closely, as if attempting to determine what she was thinking. Knowing exactly what she’d been thinking about the soft sensuality of the wine he'd drunk, and the way in which he’d described it made Zelda blush again as she looked down into her own glass.

“Are you from New Orleans?” he asked.

“I am,” Zelda nodded. “Thoroughly Southern,” she laughed softly.

“A magnolia in full bloom, I would say. Or perhaps, better yet, a lovely Camellia,” he responded in earnest.

Zelda looked at him, disbelieving that he would think her as lovely as a Southern bloom when he was such a stunning specimen of his own. His green eyes watched her as she returned the intensity in them with her blue ones.

“Thank you. Where are you from?” she asked while pretending to remove an invisible piece of lint from the table.

“Across the pond. Cornwall,” he said. “But I like it here. I think I might stay for a while.”

Zelda looked up as she heard the humor that laced his comment. His green eyes continued to gaze at her as if she were the only person in the room, gaging her reaction.

She suddenly, though still a little nervous, grew more comfortable and gave him her best smile. “That would be wonderful. I’m your number one fan, I assure you. I could listen to you read for years. Your voice – it’s so lovely.”

At her words, he cocked his head a bit and his brow rose in question. “Years? You might regret that one, I fear.”

Realizing what he was inferring, Zelda blushed, mentally cursing herself for doing so yet again while also silently contradicting him. Tire of that sensuous, velvety voice of yours? Not in a million years!

He took note of the lovely edition of Lady of the Lake that she’d brought with her to his reading and then glanced up to study her a bit more before he said, “Why do I feel as if I already know you, Zelda?”

Zelda emitted a faint, somewhat nervous laugh and quickly took a sip of her wine before she said, “Quite possibly because I’ve been at all of your readings, hanging on to each and every word. I adore the Classics and the way in which you read them.” And I adore you, too.

“Yes, quite possibly, but still….one has to wonder,” he said as he reached across the table to lightly touch her hand with his own.

Zelda’s breath caught in her throat, as she realized the full importance of her visit to the Prose and Wine this night. She shivered at his light touch as she realized that had she not come as she had first thought not to do, there would have been no Gawain at her table, and she never would have met this man. And instead, in the briefest heartbeat, Zelda felt the connection between them grow by leaps and bounds. It gained a momentum of its own, like a bottle of Merlot being opened and exposed to the air, thereby allowing it to breathe while enhancing the fullness embodied therein with every second that it rests. Yes, she was surely dreaming, but if that was the case, she hoped never to awaken.

Her blue eyes grew suddenly serious as she returned his gaze. She smiled, aware that there was a consequence for every little inconsequential action. In turn, Gawain smiled, too.

“Shall we do this again?” he asked, emboldened by the look in her eyes.

“Yes, most assuredly,” Zelda replied.

“Well,” he began, but then momentarily diverted his green gaze to the glass of Merlot before continuing. It occurred to her, quite surprisingly, that he was slightly unsure of his next words and the response she would offer. “Perhaps then we should consider this to be our first date?”

Suddenly exuding in confidence she knew not from where it came, Zelda lifted her hand so that her slender fingers lay atop his strong hand and lightly caressed it. Her smile said it all as she answered him.

“Nothing would please me more, Gawain. As first dates go, this one may go down in history as a classic of its own. Would you not agree?”