Merlot & Flo - Things Can Get Progressively Better

Late afternoon sunlight oozed through the partially open blinds and grimy windows of the office, flung itself like spider webs through the stale, fuggy air and splattered in pee-colored puddles on a desk littered with empty Starbucks cups and Brueggers Bagels wrappers. Hunched over the desk was a man with a cracked cellphone hanging from a limp hand and mouthing the words to the recorded message yet again: "Bonjour! You've reached the cell phone of Anoinette Dupuis. I'm sorry I'm not here to take your call personally. At the tone, please leave your name, number and a brief message and I will return your call. Au revior!"

"Like hell you will," he muttered under his breath as he waited for the beep. A tobacco-flavored eternity later he heard it, then spoke with forced cheerfulness, "Hey Antoinette! Joe Sticker, insurance agent, here in Surrey Heights. Give me a call! Once again, I hope you're doing well. I look forward to connecting with you here soon regarding your car insurance, and getting that changed over for you. I have some lower payments we talked about here a while back, and I wanted to help you do that before your payment comes due this month if possible, so you can start saving some money. Give me a call when you get a chance: 123-666-1313 - thank you very much!"

Joe tossed the phone onto the desk and looked up at the dingy ceiling. He'd lost count of how many times he called that number over the last months, but her name and auto insurance inquiry kept popping up in his lead feed, so he stubbornly kept calling. He'd actually talked to her briefly several months ago and it sounded like she really wanted a quote. Joe rubbed a big hand over his tired eyes; he had to get some sales soon or his business would fold. He glanced at the moon-faced clock on the unhappy wall opposite his desk and sighed; at 4:30 on a Friday afternoon nobody would be answering any more calls. The lucky ones would be going to the bars or out to dinner with someone exciting and beautiful.

He smiled grimly; OK, maybe not someone exciting and beautiful, but with someone...

Joe unfolded his lanky frame as the chair creaked warningly, grabbed his only-slightly-frayed suit jacket and shambled out the door. It closed with a soft finality behind him.

Outside, Joe blinked in the dusty sunlight and headed languidly to his used Subaru. His brother called it "The Green Grunt", but it was paid for and it got him where he wanted to go. If he made as much as his brother did, he'd be driving a Porsche, too. But Joe had always been just average in a family of over-achievers; he'd been middle of his graduating class, middle in his athletic attempts, and not even middle in his default career. What friends he had were just as bland and ordinary as he was, and weren’t enough of a clientele to keep his business afloat; just middle-of-the-roaders living a middling life in middle America…

Joe snorted; "Middle" should have been his middle name, but he didn't even have one.

Joe slid behind the wheel, settled his back into the lumps of the seat, then noticed the bright post-it on the dashboard declaring "CATFOOD!!!" in pink marker. He nodded to himself and started off for Lion Foods; this low-tech system worked much better for him than his temperamental phone which would only remind him of things if it felt like it. Joe patted the post-it fondly; it was comforting to know that there would be someone waiting for him when he got home, even if only waiting to be fed. Too bad Sam and Frodo didn’t need insurance…

While cruising along on automatic pilot, Joe's thoughts stumbled back to that fruitless phone call; he used to enjoy her warm voice and sensual accent, but by now all it did was annoy him. He'd been trying to talk to her for so long and she just ignored him. The thought made him grind his teeth in furious frustration and he could feel a headache coming on behind his left eye.

On a sudden whim, Joe gunned the Subaru, zoomed through a yellow light, and pulled screeching into the parking lot of Scorecard, the only watering hole he knew. He leaped from the car and slammed the door so hard, its bottom edge, scalloped with rust, flaked off in small, cinnamon flecks. He'd had a long day - hell, he'd had a long month. He deserved a little time with the guys and a drink or two. Cat food could wait.

After fumbling in his pocket for his mask (standard issue, blue surgical and slightly worn from multiple uses), Joe hooked it over his ears, then strode into the sports bar, yanked out a chair and perched on it, pretending he did this all the time. A tall, heavyset man looked up from tap, then grinned over his own mask. "Hey, Joe! Long time, no see! Where've you been?" Joe opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment the man interjected, "Your brother was just here; did you see him in the parking lot? That's one sweet set of wheels he's driving!"

Joe's mouth snapped shut and he muttered, "Just gimme the usual, please, Terry." Terry cocked his shaggy head to one side, regarding Joe curiously. "And what would that be?", he asked simply. Joe scowled at him a moment, then sighed. "What kind of a bartender are you that you don't remember your customers' regular orders?" Terry guffawed, then shot back, "A damn good one, but you're hardly ever here. But I think I've got something you'll like."

Moments later, a glass of foamy, brown ale plunked down on the bar in front of him along with a basket of overly salted chips. Joe nodded to Terry's retreating back, then shoved his mask back into a pocket. Morosely he crunched on a handful of chips, washing them down with swigs of the Guinness while contemplating life, phone calls and older brothers.

Joe was just licking the last of the salt from his fingers when behind him he heard a familiar voice. "Bonjour, Michelle! I just got to Scorecard..."

Carefully Joe looked over his left shoulder and froze. There, curled like a cat at the table just behind him, was a tumble of brown curls spilling over smooth shoulders, splashes of yellow and green on a summer dress, and a pair of shapely legs ending in basket-woven sandals. A flash of red like a cardinal's wing covered her face: Antoinette Dupuis. She was holding a cell phone to her ear and speaking carefully through the mask.

"How long should I wait for you?... What? Oh..." Joe could hear the disappointment in her voice, that lovely, silken voice like warm honey on fresh baguette.

"Of course I understand. No worries! These things happen. Kiss the children for me!" She set the phone down and stared unseeingly out the window.

Surreptitiously Joe signaled Terry, who hurried over. "Terry," Joe leaned in close, "what's the best French wine you've got?" Terry's eyes flicked briefly in Antoinette's direction, then he whispered, "She liked a merlot." Joe jerked a thumb in her direction, "Send her a glass of your best from me."

While Terry was pouring and presenting, Joe was wracking his brain for his wobbly French. He'd had a couple of years in high school, but that was centuries ago. Then he remembered his temperamental cell phone and pulled it out of his pocket. Its cracked screen flickered briefly, then faded into darkness; he'd forgotten to charge it again. For this, Joe was on his own. Marshaling his vocabulary like toy soldiers, Joe took a deep breath, hooked his mask back over his ears, then stood up and stepped to her table. It was the most frightening moment of his life.

"Escusez moi, mademoiselle," he said gallantly while bowing slightly. Antoinette looked up, and Joe felt his breath catch at the wide, brown eyes fringed with thick lashes that looked questioningly at him like a doe. He cleared his throat unnecessarily, then announced "Je m'appelle Joe Sticker."

Antoinette's eyes widened in recognition, making her look even more like a deer. A flush brighter than her mask swept over her face and rushed across her forehead. She glanced away, then stammered, "Joe? Joe Sticker?!? I had no idea! Please, please sit down!" and she gestured to the empty chair across the table. Joe slid into it, feeling better about life and himself than he had in a long time.

The conversation began with profuse apologies from Antoinette and gracious acceptance from Joe, but then gathered energy and speed like a river filled with meltwater and surging downstream. The sun sank into an orange heat haze, patrons came and went, Joe ordered them dinner with more merlot, and still they talked. When Antoinette slipped the mask from her face in one smooth motion, Joe found it the most sensual and erotic gesture he'd ever seen. He was mesmerized by her voice and her graceful movements, but even more entranced by her warmth, intelligence and humor.

Terry startled them with his last call for the evening, and Antoinette looked apologetically at Joe. "I had no idea it had gotten so late. This has been a lovely evening. Merci beaucoup!" She flashed him that achingly beautiful smile that he was beginning to hope he would see every day for the rest of his life. She made a move to get up, but Joe impulsively took her hands in his, making her look deep in his eyes.

"Ma chérie," he said softly, massaging her slender fingers, "may I ask you something?"

Her eyes filled with tenderness and she smiled again. "Bien sûr, dear Joe! You can ask me anything you like."

Feeling very bold, he reached out to gently brush a wisp of curl from her cheek, then whispered, "Have you ever thought of bundling home and auto?".