Wet Dog

It was a lovely day in the town of Oxford, and everywhere white flowers hung in thick bunches from branches adorned with fresh new leaves. Ed sat on a rock by the slow moving river in University Park, calmly observing the sunlight as it collected in the swirls of bubbles spiraling slowly past. He had just finished a tutorial on Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

“For I have known them all already, known them all:  Have known the evenings, mornings and afternoons, I have measured out my life in coffee spoons,” he said. It was the first time Ed had read Eliot and he was immediately into him, especially Prufrock. He looked up and across a grassy field and saw Corrine walking towards him. She was wheeling her old black bicycle. Ed got up and dusted himself off and walked towards her. She looked upset.
"Hey, are you Ok?"

“I fell on the way over,” she said, and looked down at her bare knees. There was a bright red scrape on each of her kneecaps.

“Look,” she said, and lifted her arm revealing another scrape on her elbow.

Ed took the handlebars and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” he said.

"No, I'm fine, besides being embarrassed. It happened over there,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “A whole bunch of people just saw me take a spill.”

‘Don’t worry about that.” Ed said, “Who are they anyway? Fuck them.”

Corrine laughed.
"Yes. Fuck them."
"Let me take your bike for you?" Ed said.

They walked along the narrow pathway by the river Cherwell and the sun filtered magically through the multitude of leaves dappling the grass and gravel path in a million brilliant spots of light.

“Where shall we go?” she said.

“I was thinking of this bistro on Little Clarendon Street. Is that too far?”

“No, not at all.”

They walked mostly in silence along the path and then onto the streets and through quiet neighborhoods where people sat and sipped tea and read books by windows. Ed wheeled the bike along and lay his hand on her shoulder and then removed it. Corrine smelled like lavender and sweat and Ed breathed in her scent and the verdant, pungent smells of spring and was filled with a feeling of vitality and good energy. 

Ed locked the bicycle to a lamppost right in front of the restaurant. It was called Chez Juliette. He had scrounged a few pounds together from his under-the-table job at the pub and was prepared to blow it all on Corrine. He had been trying for months to get her to go out with him. They were in Oxford on the same study abroad program and until recently she had been getting together with their drunk and womanizing program leader, Larry from Australia. Ed’s dalliances were numerous and just as short lived and he had been simmering for her for so long and was about to come to a boil. Corrine broke it off with Larry because of his drinking habit and fondness for amyl nitrate and disappearing to London for days on end. 

Ed and Corrine walked Inside the restaurant and a young sadly beautiful waitress in a tight white blouse greeted them at the door.

“A table for two?”  she said.

“Hell yes,” Ed said, “I mean, please.”

She led them to a table next to two half opened French Doors. There was a red rose in a small blue glass vase on the white linen table cloth, and there were only two other couples in the joint.

Ed observed a few solitary students and couples walking by lazily in the blessing that is springtime in England. 
((Start edit here) ----
Corrine was staring at him.

They locked eyes for just a moment then she laughed.

“I can’t believe this,” she said.

“What can’t you believe, dear?”

“I can’t believe we are sitting here right now.”

Ed tapped the table with his knuckles, looked down at his chair and scuffed his feet on the wood floor a few times.

“It seems to me that I’m here. But I can’t vouch for you.”

Corrine smiled and her long raven-dark hair fell over one eye.

The waitress approached the table and said,
“Would you care for a cocktail, or some wine?”

Ed raised his eyebrows and looked at Corrine.

“A bit of wine to calm you nerves?” he said.

She blushed and looked at the table.

“After your terrible accident, I mean.”

She looked up at him grinning tightly.

“I would love some white wine.” she said.

“Do you have a Sauvignon Blanc?” Ed said.

 “We have a choice one, by chance.”

“Ah,” Ed said “a dry white wine on a rare dry day.”

Corrine smiled and shook her head. The waitress couldn’t have cared less.

Ed never gave waiters a hard time, he had been doing the resto thing for years and knew the bullshit they had to deal with. But he was feeling lively with the spring air, and it was the third and last term was starting off with a bang and not a whimper. He and Josh had moved into their new digs at Hodges Court and now Ed finally had some private time with this wonderful cultured woman.

Corrine opened her menu. Ed left his on the table and leaned the chair on its back two legs.

“You hungry, Corrine?” he said.

“Yes, actually.” she said. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“I’ve got a healthy appetite.”

Ed liked the sound of that. Then he proceeded to put his foot in his mouth.

“You are very healthy aren’t you?” 

“What do you mean by that?” she said, slapping the menu down on the table.

Healthy is a tricky word to use with some women.

“I mean…you are a woman of the senses,” Ed said,  “you know, a sensitive, sensory person. I could tell that right away, when we met.”

“What do you mean?” she said, “When we met we were both trashed.”

“Exactly, that’s what I mean…you and me, we are the same...we suck the marrow out of life…the appetites are a wonderful thing.”

Corrine picked up her menu and shook her head.

The waitress came with the wine. It was uncorked and Ed knew that was a no-no. She placed two glasses on the table and poured a bit into Ed’s glass. He tasted it, looked out the window, did the little inhalation, wine-aeration thing and swallowed.

“Excellent.” he said.

She filled Corrine’s glass and then filled his and placed the bottle on the table next to the little rose in the blue vase.

“I’ll be back in a while to take your order.” she said.

Ed raised his glass. “To you Corrine, and a speedy recovery.”

“To you,” she said, “and a magical spring.” 

They touched glasses, ching ching.

Ed took a sip. It was fairly sweet for a Sauvignon Blanc. He watched as Corrine raised the glass to her lips. She put the her glass down gently and swirled the wine in her mouth and swallowed. Her nose crinkled up and she shook her head like one would with water up the nose.

“Ichh…’ she said, not quietly, “this tastes like wet dog.”

“Oh,” Ed said, “is that a vineyard? Where is it?” He truly thought it was a brand of wine.

“No, man,” she said “it tastes like a wet dog.”

“Is it going to be OK?” he said.

“Yes, of course, but Sauvignon Blanc’s are generally much drier. This one must be young.”

“Shall we send it back?”

”No. Not at all. It’s not that bad” she said, “It’ll do.”

“Anything for you, Corrine.” he said,  “You know that, right?’ speaking about far more than a different wine.

Corrine picked up the menu.

‘Thank you, Ed.” she said, holding in a smile, “I’ll keep that in mind. Now let’s see what there is to eat.” She couldn’t help but grin, her lips spreading wide and revealing a perfect smile.

Ed leaned the chair back on its legs, tipped his glass to her and took a long swig.

“God...” she said.

It was a delicious feast. Ed ordered the duck confit, and Corrine had a veal dish.

“I know it’s cruel to the little cow,” she said between mouthfuls. “but it tastes so good.”

The salads came after the meal, and the wine got better after the first glass, as it does, especially if you quaff it quickly. They ordered two more glasses of a very nice and very dry White Bordeaux. The sun was setting slowly in an orange blur over the old, low roofs of the shops along Little Clarendon Street. Strings of white Christmas lights that hung there all year round brightened the dank blue twilight sky like softly glowing pearls.

They decided to skip dessert, and Corrine had no interest in a cognac. Ed didn’t either but thought it might be fitting for such a place and such an evening. How he learned these things he didn’t know.

Ed paid the bill and Corrine left a low percentage British tip. As they walked out he gave the waitress a small bow and she still didn’t smile. He unlocked Corrine’s bike and handed the lock and the chain to her. She was on the curb and Ed was in the street so their eyes, and lips, were on the same level. Ed felt that raw primal urge to kiss her. They both leaned towards each other with a warm energy and kinetic pull bringing them so close he felt her breath on his cheek. Two crazy pigeons erupted in flight a few feet away and startles Ed who pulled back. Corrine put the chain and lock around the base of her seat and took the handle bars of her bike. The street was nearly empty and Ed felt just then that he was smack dab in the middle of a Van Gogh painting.

“Shall I walk you home?” He said.

“I would love that.”

Corrine opened the latch on a low, wooden gate and they walked down a path that ran behind a row of connected houses.

“This is where I live,” she said. It was dark now, and the night time smells of damp foliage and dew and chimney fires filled the air. She leaned her bike against the fence behind her house and they entered a small backyard on a thin blue stone path that ran through two large swaths of lawn. A pear tree in the corner near the house was festooned with a thousand tiny blossoms just emerging from their green buds, like lover’s spring dreams. A single bulb shone bright from a small iron lantern that hung over the back door. Corrine entered first and tossed her bag on a table cluttered with newspapers, books and scores of music. It was cool inside, like most British homes, and small and quaint and very, very old.

“Would you care for some tea, Ed?” Corrine said.

“I would love some tea.”

“I’ll start a fire, too. You take a seat anywhere and relax.”

She took an old metal kettle from the stove and filled it from the sink. Ed looked at  a poster on the wall. La Boheme. He read further and saw it was an opera.

“Do you like the opera?” he said.

“I love the opera.” she said turning off the faucet and looking at him. She put the kettle on the stove and turned the knob; it clicked a few times and a blue flame burst into being.

“How about you, Ed, do you care for the opera?” She said this last part in a highly affected British accent.

“Well, I dare say love, I have not, as of yet, had the pleasure.” He said, continuing the mimicry.

“My dear man,” she said, bringing a dish towel down into the palm of her open hand.

“We simply must rectify this tragedy at once. a man of your obvious class and culture should not be denied the magic and beauty of the O-Per-A.”

They both laughed.

“I’m ready to go anytime.”

“Well,” she said,  “I’ll find out what’s playing now in London and we’ll go!”

“Awesome.”

“Go have a seat in the den and I’ll be in with the tea in a minute. Then maybe  we’ll see if there is anything you can do for me.” She said, and winked.

It was Ed’s turn to blush. Sounds great to me, he thought, and went into the other room and sat down on the couch in a state of general peace and excited anticipation.

He woke early to the sounds of lorries rumbling down The Abingdon Road. He leaned up on his elbow and could not see Corrine. He sat upright and peered over the snowy mounds of her soft white duvet and pushed it down with his hands. There was a mass of black curls and Corrine snoring gently. Ed got up slowly so as not to wake her. He had become a master of the silent bed-exit through years of practice. He stood there nude and cold and stretched his arms above his head. It was feckin cold. The bedroom window was open a few inches and the brisk air was blowing in. Ed stood on the floor relishing that early morning, pleasurably drained, yet robust feeling of making love. Love, he thought, can happen anywhere at anytime for any duration. He slipped on his wool pants and wrapped an Afghan around his shoulders and walked through the living room into the kitchen. He filled the kettle and put it on the range and turned the knob on the stove, click click click. He sat down at the table and picked up a score of music and counted out a few of the notes, marveling at the complexity of sharps and flats and all the stuff that makes beautiful music. A black cat with a white star on his forehaed appeared silently from the living room, sat down, yawned and stared at him. “Bonjour, buddy.” Ed said, pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and leaned back, the old cane chair cracking and creaking.