never one to moderate

feeling unflinchingly fearless (i said i was drinking tequila), i asked, "how's the zinfindel?" and studied her face and its lack of movement. she turned slowly and replied in a low, whisper-thin voice that bespoke of throat surgery, "fine. it's not rose, but it will do." interesting. she actually answered me. straighforwardly. with no hint of the grinding animus she had projected at zac. she wasn't in the neighborhood of friendly, but she had left ragetown. i proffered that perhaps they were just out of rose since the times style section had declared it the new cosmo. (no, i didn't actually read that in the times. i discovered this suddenly useful factoid on a blog. no, not the huffungton post. whatever.) the hipsters must be slurping the stuff the way a child follows a parent through a disaster. not sure what's going on or why and with only the vague supposition that this must be right despite all the horror associated with the moment. i think rose wine is pretty horrible anyway.

her gossamer voice rose slightly.

"did you read that in the times style section?"
(imagined response:)
"fuck no! i don't waste my time or money on those self-haters!"
(real response:)
"no, a friend told me. i just thought it was noteworthy."
"is it?"
(uh oh...a challenge...didn't expect to get that...think...think...)
"of course. until tonight, i've never seen anyone drink it, so i thought it was curious that it should suddenly be the 'it' drink." (yeah...take that! smarty pants!)

her eyes narrowed slightly as if to gauge whether i was insulting her or simply a naif who had never traveled in those social circles where rose wine is de rigeur. i hoped she would pick two. it was closer to the truth. though i suppose in my own tequila-inspired, unconscious way, i was taking a swipe at the practice of quaffing fruity drinks. it speaks of eloquent eves writing roccoco poetry and reading keats. wicker picnic baskets and floral dresses. hair tied back with a ribbon. french furniture. landscape paintings with heavy wooden frames. candelabras. ick. not my scene and maybe i was unintentionally communicating that. but i certainly didn't want her to think that. lest i become the next victim of her visual mutilation. chills.

"i started drinking it when i was 13 because it was the only booze my mother kept in the house."
"so it's not because it's the new cosmo."
"no. and i won't stop drinking it because of that either."

she softened slightly. as if her self-validation had broken through whatever vexation she'd walked in with. and now i was getting a better look at her face. some creases, but not so many as to give away her age. heavy brown eyes. round face, but not without some angle around the nose. she looked almost like her nose had pushed out from the back of her head somehow. it wasn't big, but it looked like it was trying to escape. not out of fear, but to explore whatever was out there. like a puppy.

her lips were full, but pale. maybe it was just that kind of lipstick. the kind hookers and strippers use. that they then line with darker lipliner. not that i've studied so many hookers and strippers. for real. i haven't. i'm just observant is all. but she didn't have the lipliner, and in the paucity of light this bar offered, i honestly couldn't say if it was her lips or a covering that were looking as if they were made from smoke.