The Bitter Wine Memento
Bitter as Blood
"Can I bring you something to drink right away or would you prefer to look at the wine list first?"
The waiter that obliviously houses such good character judgement asks me this question. His white shirt appears whiter against the black trousers and loose tie, and the darkness behind him. The shirt, as well as the shadows, shifts from black to a lighter colour in the continuously changing lamplight. White it is, and then suddenly yellow, and then perhaps a dim shade of red. His facial features dance with the light and the dark, making it impossible to see his real expression. Nothing but his teeth, one second yellowish, the next pale white, glimmering at me through the dense, smoky air.
He leans over the table, sticking a marble-coloured candle into the holder. He lights it gently with a broken match. He shakes the life out of the little stick and proceeds to look at me.
"Sir, if you would so wish, I could serve you the house wine."
No, I can not see his face, but as I sit answerless for a minute his teeth become less
visible. The smile fades gradually.
"Wine? Oh, of course. I suppose red wine for this evening. Yes, red will suit me. Something Bordeaux, something fine?"
The boy, who is leaning on his right hip, is placing a thoughtful index finger in the pit between his chin and bottom lip. He squints a little and hums to himself to fill our co-existence, as it is so bare. He fears the naked silence.
"I know just the wine. You will like this one, quite unique in its flavour. This Bordeaux is sophisticated, but not in a boasting sort of way. It has character, you see, character. It has soul."
His eyes widen slightly on the last, heavily emphasized word. Then he shifts his weight to the other hip, tosses his head back and laughs in a gentle sort of way. He indicates with a small nod that my order has been taken and slithers away quickly between the closely spaced tables. He reminds me of a black and white ferret.
Before he gets too far I raise my voice and throw three words his way.
"Is it bitter?"
Without looking up I can tell he stops and turns to look at me.
"The wine, sir? Oh, you do not know half of it. Bitter like the alpine winters."
He tosses, laughs, and ferrets off again.
In my dark corner, my menu still untouched and the silence thickening again, I croak an answer.
"Bitter as blood, then. Good."
I took from my pocket a cigarette and lit it, my mind absent again.
The waiter that obliviously houses such good character judgement asks me this question. His white shirt appears whiter against the black trousers and loose tie, and the darkness behind him. The shirt, as well as the shadows, shifts from black to a lighter colour in the continuously changing lamplight. White it is, and then suddenly yellow, and then perhaps a dim shade of red. His facial features dance with the light and the dark, making it impossible to see his real expression. Nothing but his teeth, one second yellowish, the next pale white, glimmering at me through the dense, smoky air.
He leans over the table, sticking a marble-coloured candle into the holder. He lights it gently with a broken match. He shakes the life out of the little stick and proceeds to look at me.
"Sir, if you would so wish, I could serve you the house wine."
No, I can not see his face, but as I sit answerless for a minute his teeth become less
visible. The smile fades gradually.
"Wine? Oh, of course. I suppose red wine for this evening. Yes, red will suit me. Something Bordeaux, something fine?"
The boy, who is leaning on his right hip, is placing a thoughtful index finger in the pit between his chin and bottom lip. He squints a little and hums to himself to fill our co-existence, as it is so bare. He fears the naked silence.
"I know just the wine. You will like this one, quite unique in its flavour. This Bordeaux is sophisticated, but not in a boasting sort of way. It has character, you see, character. It has soul."
His eyes widen slightly on the last, heavily emphasized word. Then he shifts his weight to the other hip, tosses his head back and laughs in a gentle sort of way. He indicates with a small nod that my order has been taken and slithers away quickly between the closely spaced tables. He reminds me of a black and white ferret.
Before he gets too far I raise my voice and throw three words his way.
"Is it bitter?"
Without looking up I can tell he stops and turns to look at me.
"The wine, sir? Oh, you do not know half of it. Bitter like the alpine winters."
He tosses, laughs, and ferrets off again.
In my dark corner, my menu still untouched and the silence thickening again, I croak an answer.
"Bitter as blood, then. Good."
I took from my pocket a cigarette and lit it, my mind absent again.