sweet sherry

the dude abides. she rolled her eyes. of all the t-shirts in all the world in all the stores, he had to buy this one and then of all the days in all the weeks he had to pick this day to pick this one off of the floor with all the other t-shirts stretching out their shortened arms. he picked this one. on this day. why oh why had he picked this one? "what the fuck?!" she said. "what?" he said. "nothing," she said.

was this a set up, she wondered? of all the men in all the world and all the profiles on all the dating sites she had waded through like the hot molasses of desire, against better judgement, against her own wishes, her hand taking over, holding the mouse, searching in the dark. she had picked this one? this dude wearing the dumb shirt? what is it with these guys? she used to like these guys. but that was before. now she drank sherry. had he ever tried sherry? she wondered looking at his hand holding the neck of a beer. too tightly. no. impossible. he had definitely never held the sweet complication of sherry in his mouth. one does not return from the experience of drinking sherry without aging a bit, like the moscatel grapes themselves.

she remembered the first time she had tried it, at a party for the new firm. those were the days when she would have rolled her eyes at sherry. but this was her attempt at another life. a new life. one that involved boring parties. the atmosphere was stale and unnerving and she had needed the calm of a glass in her hand. she had been handed a glass of sweet sherry. at first she was sure there had been a mistake. the pruney assault on her tongue, the liquified raisins rotting in her mouth. was this a set up? she had wondered. but she kept sipping anyway because it was a welcome task keeping her mouth entertained while the rest of her went numb.

this was but the first of many such compromises she would make.