She looked at him, smiling slightly. He really was quite handsome. Perhaps not as tall as she would’ve liked, but those eyes, that jawline, the posture, the confident swagger, all of it cumulatively made up for any small defect she might have spotted.
Another drawback of being someone whose job it was to critique: some thought she was overly critical in the partners she chose, but Amelia could pick out a ten-euro bottle of wine in comparison to a hundred-euro bottle. She could detect the taste in an instant, and in the same way, she wanted quality in the men in her life.
The handsome man sat at the table and leaned back, placing his small, black physician’s bag on the table. It was then she noticed he was wearing gloves. Riding gloves? Or perhaps driving gloves?
The gloves were black, with stitched seams, and he tapped his fingers against the table for a moment. Slowly, she watched as he peeled off the gloves and placed them into the physician’s bag. He zipped the bag back up, though not fully. This time, she glimpsed something glinting within. A matchbook?
He wasn’t a smoker, was he? She hated it when that happened. Not the vice itself—the prettiest ones always had some hidden crutch. She simply preferred finding out about it after she got what she wanted.
Amelia allowed her eyes to stretch up and down the American once more, taking him in, wondering what he looked like without that suit on. Then, smirking to herself, she moved over behind the counter, withdrawing one of the special stock from the wooden slot at the back of the display case. Then, retrieving two clean glasses, she moved back toward where he waited.
He noticed the second glass. “Will you be joining me?” he called across the room, still cranking his smile to a ten.
She shrugged back at him over the counter. “If you don’t mind. My shift is almost over as it is.”
The man chuckled. “It will be our little secret.”
She brushed a strand of hair back into submission behind her ear and then returned to the table, her heels clicking against the floor as she strode back toward the man. She placed the tray and the two glasses on the table next to him. She hesitated, then realized she’d left her wine opener back with the other dirtied glasses.
“Merde,” she cursed. “Sorry, one second.”
She turned and hurried away, but a few seconds later, behind her, she heard a quiet pop. She glanced back, stunned, but realized the cork was now off, and the man was wafting his hand over the top of the bottle, inhaling deeply and then smiling.
“Spatburgunder, no?” he called out, smiling.
As she rejoined him a second time, leaving the bottle opener with the dishes, she slowly sat at the table and raised her eyebrows, impressed. “You know your grapes,” she said. “Are you a sommelier too?”
He shook his head primly. His hands were clasped around the glass he poured, and she noted how he kept twisting it, studying the liquid within. One of his eyebrows arched delicately on his forehead.
“You know, there are stories about wine… Have you heard of Dionysus, the Greek god?”
She wrinkled her nose, shaking her head as she settled in the chair opposite him.
He smiled. “Just a myth, of course. But some think Dionysus’s infatuation with wine was due to its god-making potential. The fruit in the garden of Eden, some say, was closer to a type of grape. It certainly wasn’t an apple.”
She smiled, puzzled for a moment.
Seemingly sensing her confusion, he gave a dismissive little laugh. “Wine is what you went to school for?” he asked.
She puffed her chest a bit and said, “Actually no—agricultural engineering.” She still wished she hadn’t sweated so much, but it was nice to talk about herself. Not everyone shared her interest in wine. She studied his lips, his jawline, her eyes tracing up to his soul-searching gaze. For a second, she glanced back at the physician’s bag with the slightly open zipper. She still couldn’t quite see what was inside and realized perhaps it wasn’t polite to stare, so she looked back at him. “You haven’t told me your name,” she said.
He curved one side of his lips up into an alley cat grin. “You can call me Gabriel.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gabriel,” she said.
“The pleasure is all mine, Amelia.”
She smiled, but the expression became rather fixed. A slow, chilly wind seemed to suddenly creep through the studio. How had he known her name? Her name badge only had her last name. An intentional effort by the staff, after some unwanted phone calls from various customers.
“Excuse me?” she said.
He smiled at her again, his startling blue eyes shifting in the fading sunlight, almost changing hue to a deep purple. “And besides wines, what other things do you enjoy?”
She rubbed at one of her arms, unbuttoning the sleeve, deciding this only made her more uncomfortable, before buttoning it again. “Music, art, poetry.”
“Wonderful. All of it, wonderful. You’re young, aren’t you?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I doubt I’m much younger than you.”
He shrugged modestly. “What are you, twenty-five? Twenty-six?”
She felt another bout of discomfort. Why was he asking her these questions? So quick, moving seamlessly from discussing wine to digging into her personal life. It wasn’t a huge bother from someone who looked like Gabriel, but Amelia wasn’t stupid, either. She suddenly realized she was alone with a stranger and glanced toward the gray sedan parked behind the dumpsters. She couldn’t quite make out the license plate.
She watched as the man’s fingers twisted around and around the wine glass. He still had some wine left in his glass, along with a small bead of red on his upper lip, which, after a moment, he licked away and gave a satisfied sigh.
“Well, I hope you enjoyed it,” she said, softly. While his was nearly empty, her own glass was nearly untouched. “I really do need to be closing, though. It’s policy.”
“Dear Amelia,” said Gabriel, “I fully understand. It is important to stick to one’s policies. I must ask you one other thing. Have you ever thought about the afterlife? Have you at least considered it?”
Her stomach dropped, and now for the first time, she allowed the emotion to cross her face in a creased frown.
He acknowledged her expression, curious, and smiled in return. “You really are quite pretty when you frown, you know that? Well, have you considered the afterlife?”
“I’m sorry, what do you mean? That’s a very strange question.”
She shivered, beginning to push back from the table. Perhaps it was simply an American thing. She often heard they would ask very personal questions, even of strangers. The French didn’t particularly like that sort of intrusion. Emotions and the like were all well and good, but certainly not among complete strangers, not even gorgeous ones. Then again, he had said she was pretty. But such words were beginning to lose their spell, and she was now past uncomfortable.
“I have, Amelia, see?” he said, softly. “The great painter Albrecht Durer completed the piece about the key and the pit, you know. In it, he depicted the only way to the beyond. Have you read Revelation? Or have you considered the Norse end? So many theories, so many thoughts. The best ones, though, if you ask me,” he said, prattling on as if she were still interested and not scared, “they’re the ones, in my humble estimation, that speak of an eternal life. A continuation of this thing. Infinite health. No more sickness or sadness. Can you imagine?”