We got in from the cold and grey outside. Inside - warm and cozy - was full of diners and that low comforting chatter of humans eating, talking, laughing and drinking.
A small band played in the inside/ outside sanctum. The soloist, a caucasian lady with small shoulders, bravely wore only a dress in that evening weather. I shivered just looking at her. We settled in a corner by the bar and ordered an overpriced but excellent bottle of Malbec. It was Lady’s first time.
Things were going great until a waiter showed up with a glass of whisky on a tray. “This is from the ladies on that table.” I turned to look and couldn’t see well because it was nighttime. I’m 47 and I’ve been wearing glasses since I was 21.
I looked at Lady, who looked at me with a withering look, as if this is exactly how I intended my evening to turn out. So I did what King Solomon would have advised; I dropped my napkin on the table and excused myself.
As I approached, I saw my ex, seated with a lady in a black hat with her back to me. I said hello to my ex and turned to look at her companion, and it was my ex before this ex. That’s two immediate exes, seated, having wine. I felt unmoored and disoriented.
I had broken up with the first ex because of the second ex, and the second ex because you don’t recover from something like that. Not even Solomon would have.
“You guys are now bosom buddies, I see,” I said.
“You seem to have a type,” the nastier of them said. “Because we have so much in common.”
Suffice it to say, I would rather have been getting my arm amputated than stand there in the glare of my own misadventures.
Back at the table, I had to quiet a silent storm, which I eventually did, and we, miraculously, had a great time. Even laughed at the absurdity of the whole theatre. Of course, you know that Wine Box is the last place I will visit again. Nobody goes back to the scene of the crime.
Your past is never truly past. There's no clean exit anymore—it’s all recycled pain and wine glasses.
