Wine and Roses

It's a very nice night
out, on the town, with my
new girlfriend Gina.
She looks lovely in her
embroidered jeans, and
tank top. Bright red roses
cascade down the seams of both
legs. She's got a thing for
roses. She's from Baltimore,
closer to Reistertown, but
what's in a name, or a few
miles. It really doesn't matter,
it's a hell of drive for
me, but she drives to where
I live and here we sit
in a warm, cozy restaurant,
well at the bar, the table
isn't quite ready.
Seven t.v.'s have seven
different games on, and loud
music is playing overhead,
Jackson Browne, Running On
Empty. Gina loves wine,
she loves to smell it, sniff
it, slosh it around in her
puckered mouth, then spit
it out, tasting several
and studying the labels,
asking extensive questions
of the twenty two year old
bartender about the wine's
origin, etc. It's a half
an hour before she is able
to make her decision. she
took a wine class at the
community college and makes
a habit of getting loopy
at every wine festival
within a day's drive. She
tells me the story of a wine
she once sipped last summer
in Fell's point. The story
is much too long. I sip
on my gin and tonic,
my second one, and look
warily at her, at the tv's
that beam from every nook
of the lounge. I'm suddenly
rethinking this boyfriend
girlfriend thing and I
excuse myself to go
the restroom, but I don't
go there, instead I go to
my car, get in, start
the engine and drive away.
I realize that I need to do
this more often. Just leave.
I think dreamily about a bottle
of Boone's Farm apple wine
that I shared with about
six other people on the
boardwalk in ninety-seventy.
Now, that was a wine.