Buttercreme

I ordered the wine with confidence, playing the big man, all bling-bling, epizootics of the blowhole dancing off my tongue, pirouetting, toe to heel, doing the Electric Slide right off my lips: tannins and appellations and malolactic fermentation, my ego swelling with the nodding of the waiter, “of course, sir,” my thoughts momentarily distracted from the fabulous cleavage being sported by my date; the cleavage that was escaping the silky suede dress whose color she called Buttercreme; the cleavage I was trying desperately not to stare at because this was our first date and I was aiming for gentlemanliness, and so I made sure to note the color of her eyes, liquid brown, and through it all I was grateful for my Ex, the sommelier, for the interminable boredom I endured as she droned on about varietals, soil conditions, acidity levels and residual sugars, her voice a reverberating hum in my ears, a hum that vibrated into the center of my brain creating space for the vocabulary that was now (hopefully) impressing my date, who was (hopefully) going to allow me to trek through that cleavage later this evening, and so I reached for my wine glass, red zinfandel glimmering luminous in the candlelight, intent on making a toast, something sweet, something simple, something easy, but I had, after all, fallen to staring at her breasts, and my hand, thinking that my mind had given it permission to fondle, moved too fast, the fingers, realizing too late that the wine glass was the intended target, instead bumped it, hard, causing the glass to tip, slowly at first, just enough time for me to understand what was about to happen, but not enough time to correct the mistake, as it crashed to the table, deep red liquid exploding outward and blooming deeply, instantly staining Buttercreme a sick shade of pink.