Goodbye

I have him to thank for my first sip of Pernod. 

It was a balmy summer day. He showed me the Pernod bottle, which sported a makeshift cap of tin foil. He sheepishly admitted he’d bored a hole in the top of the bottle because he hadn’t been able to get it open. 

I thought of this last night when dealing with a bottle of Australian Shiraz. I couldn’t get the plastic cork back in the bottle. So it went into the fridge topped with foil. 

I didn’t really like the Pernod, so he insisted on getting me something else to drink. He was always generous like that. 

It was so cold today. Summer seems very far away. 

“Pernod is an afternoon drink,” he told me one night when we went to a pub after having dinner. So he ordered a Maker’s Mark, with one ice cube. Occasionally a man (always a man) will order the same thing from me when I’m working. I can’t help but think of him. 

I try not to think of the Pinot Noir he brought to my house. I took it from him and smiled and said I was happy to have him over. As he followed me inside he put both his hands on my back … gently, reassuringly. It was a subtle gesture — somehow declaring us to be more than acquaintances … more than friends. And that was all that mattered. 

The first time we kissed I was in such a state of euphoria that, after leaving, I ended up taking a wrong turn and got stuck on the bridge to Bellevue. The last time we kissed wasn’t much different. 

Dating is fun. I make light of it, often. But when your heart gets involved it turns into serious business. I’m not in love … never have been, actually. But somehow I still manage to get hurt every now and then.