It was our second date. She had suggested an outdoor picnic. Little did I know, a bottle of wine was about the ruin the day, our relationship and my life forever.
It was a beautiful sunny afternoon. As we lay on the picnic rug, a soft breeze danced across our skin. We picked at the gourmet antipasto platter. Our fingers brushed over a hunk of gorgonzola; rotten, like our relationship was about to be.
The wine flowed – a full-bodied Heathcote Shiraz – and so did the conversation. Halfway through our second glass, I realised: this was the girl of my dreams.
I reached for the bottle. Now, I know my wines and judging by the weight of it, there was at least a third left. I was out to impress so I poured her glass first. But before I knew it, the bottle was empty! The last of the delicious crimson nectar was in her glass!
I was in shock. What had just happened? Had I screwed myself with my own manners? My date saw my face – my thirsty-and-more-sober-than-I-would-have-liked face – and made a half-hearted attempt to salvage the situation. “Oh no, I’ll pour some into yours,” she said like a maniac.
What could I do? If I agreed, I’d look like a psychopath. She had me snookered and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
Oh sure, she pretended there wasn’t an issue. She stretched out in the sun and prattled on about work as she sipped on the last of that sweet $11.95 Aldi Best Buy wine.
Well played, ex-dreamgirl. Well played.
I never saw her again.
