sunflower

Carlos chuckled softly at the joke, lifting one of the filled glasses with a small nod of thanks. "I don’t know," he said, swirling the wine before taking a sip. "I think there’s room in the world for a dry joke, especially when it comes with good wine. Keeps people on their toes."

He leaned back, still eyeing Francis with a casual curiosity. "And hey, if your jokes really are that dry, then maybe they pair perfectly with the pinot. Kind of a full experience, you know?"

his eyes cut a glance at the man's hands. his father had once taught him that another man's hands are the window to their soul —or, well, something like that. really, he couldn't remember the entirety of his father's then-drunken rant ... something about how an american-made middle class kid would kick the shit out of a pampered rich kid because the pampered rich kid would be too worried about his cuticles.

a second before it became far-too-uncomfortable, francis yanked himself from his anxious reverie and did his best to resume his professionalism. "hmm, i'm not sure," he hummed, "i think that if someone were to pair my wine with my jokes they'd find their mouth as dry as the mojave. but, forget about the fact that inadvertantly compared our wine to an indian desert, won't you? i don't think that'll do me any favors around here."

"Great to meet you." Mateo told him as they let go of the handshake and he moved to hold his cane in his right hand once more. "Right, of course." Mateo truly had no idea what he was doing but he could at least pretend, right?

He took the stem and brought it to his lips and took a sip and let it rest on his tongue before he swallowed. "Wow. If this is what we're starting with, I'm eager to try to the rest." He joked, laughing softly.

anxiously, he began to swipe at the back of his neck as he watched the man's adam's apple bob, but managed to pull himself together enough as the man spoke again.

"i'm glad you're enjoying it," he began on autopilot, "because there's plenty more where that came from. we have an exceptional selection of wines, but we like to focus on quality over quantity." he reached over to grab a pamphlet (printed on parchment paper somehow, no less) that had been conveniently left nearby and handed it to him. or, well, he started to. his hand had extended itself as the other man spoke, but, sensing that he was holding out his hand for far too many seconds than was considered normal, he placed it on the counter, instead.

"erm — sorry. well, we — i mean, what would you like to try next? or, better yet, do you have a certain selection you're hoping to sample? perhaps something that you think would be a big hit with the typical demographic that visit seascape?"

“I’m always open to recommendations,” Pablo said though he did already have a couple of bottles in mind. “I’ll take two bottles of the 2019 Syrah you’ve got and a bottle of 2022 Pinot Noir. Are you still doing the deal when you buy six bottles?” Pablo asked. Not that it really mattered. He planned to buy six bottles whether or not there was a discount. That was how many holes he had in his wine rack that needed filling.

not that francis had anything against the internet — really, it was quite the opposite: the internet had everything against him. he wasn't even that old, but he found himself absolutely floundering trying to keep up with the times. essentials, he could do... but social media trends? his father had recommended hiring someone to do that for him and, when francis started to protest, insisting that he could do it, his father merely shook his head and walked away.

upon hearing that the man was open to recommendations, the name of a crisp white danced on his tongue but fell and broke its ankle the second the man continued speaking. francis, too, nearly fell over at the embarrassment of starting to speak — "oh, well can i interest--" — only to slam his mouth shut so hard that his teeth rattled.

licking his back molars, he nodded. "we are, yes," he said as he began to gather up the necessary bottles. a not-so-small part of him seemed to yell from the abyss at francis' performance. he wasn't at his best, and he knew it. "with three remaining, might i recommend our viognier? it isn't a white — you seem to strike me as a 'red-blooded' man, so to speak, given that you, uh, have ordered a few reds."

feeling himself about to have another stuttering fit, francis stopped mid-step towards the viognier and took a deep breath. when he finished, he glanced sideways at the man and uttered an apology that, frankly, should have fallen upon deaf ears.

When he said 'short circuit' she couldn't help but laugh. "You're funny." She mumbled under her breath, not wanting to talk the poor man's ears off. "Wait.. there's orange wine?" She paused and furrowed her brows. "Is it... made out of grapes?" Stevie was in so over her head. She was fine with wine from a box. There was no way she was about to be picky. "I will take the malbec... is that a white or red?" @frxncisbelle

he was almost delighted — 'almost' being the key here as francis felt like he was hardly truly delighted by anything anymore — by the question about the orange wine. once, a few weeks ago, actually, a woman had come in threatening a lawsuit because their winery had falsely advertised the contents of the wine. 'i don't taste even a dollop of orange in here,' to which francis had replied —

'ah, well, so it is made out of grapes, unfortunately, but it is called orange wine due to its color. there's a long, boring explanation as to why that is the case, but it's much more interesting to taste it; however, be warned, but it isn't particularly one of my favorites," he rambled as he poured her a glass of malbec, gave it a pretentious little swoosh around the glass just to busy himself, and offered it to her. he let the brilliant red color catch the natural light of the winery and hoped she found this to be at least a little bit interesting.

"i think you'll enjoy it," he said as he offered his hand out. "it is a bit dry, though. i once heard someone say that all red wine tastes like what they imagine eating sand is like... which, kudos to them for their honesty."

Marjorie had never understood the appeal of wineries, or at least the phenomenon of wine tastings. Watching a waiter carry a tray of steaming wine in front of her did nothing to change that. It wasn’t that she didn’t like wine—Marjorie was a voracious drinker of it. But the spectacle of the event baffled her. Here she was, packed into a “tasting room” with a crowd clamoring for sips of wine. For what she’d paid, she could have bought a couple of decent bottles of pink wine and enjoyed them in the comfort of her own home.

She figured it was one of those rituals she didn’t quite get. It wasn’t really about the wine itself but about the process and performance. It seemed like another way to divide class and wealth. With the right income, anyone could stop in for a tasting; for a little more, there was the option of a membership; and for even more, V.I.P. treatment was available. If nothing else, it made for an interesting spectacle. She’d overheard someone arguing about wanting to do their tasting in a barrel room on her way in.

hands held aloft in surrender, he took a step back and let his nose come close to touching the counter as he bowed. when he came back up, he wiped away a stream of imaginary sweat and smiled. "unfortunately, my business here is to unite you with the taste and feel of a lovely glass of wine; fortunately, i will also be avoiding embarrassing myself further... because i cannot rhyme, so that must be a sign."

as he poured a glass or two, he stopped and stiffened.

"oh, wait, i think i just did."

"Hey, no worries," Carlos said with a reassuring smile. "I actually kind of liked the 'good morning, good afternoon, and good night' bit. Made me feel like I was at a cozy little diner rather than a tasting bar." @frxncisbelle

"It was a bit much," francis joked as he filled up a glass or two with whatever the handsome man before him had ordered seconds ago. as he placed the bottle down, placed two fingers between the stem of the glass, and pushed, francis contemplated the use of the word 'bit' in pop-culture nowadays. really, he didn't quite get it — why were people calling a joke a bit? feels a bit silly.

"i don't make a habit of joking, you see. usually, unfortunately, my jokes are as dry as our vineyard-made pinot noir. although, uh, really, i think people would prefer the pinot over the jokes."

google was her best friend here. Having searched, 'ten interesting activities to try' she landed on wine tasting. She enjoyed wine. She didn't know a damn thing about it though. Stevie had never understood what it was people meant when they said a wine was 'oaky' or had 'notes of apple'. To her it just tasted like wine. Still, she felt wine tasting could be fun.

Moving up to the tasting area, she looked down at the menu that was placed in front of her. However, the man's tone immediately made her chuckle to herself. She was a hairdresser, so she deeply understood the feeling. Sometimes you were just people-d out by the end of a long day of talking.

"It's okay. It was cute. Besides... I totally get that way myself. Like.. come four o'clock I get robot-y at work too."

"you're very understanding. i appreciate it." he grabbed two bottles, one red and one white, without breaking eye contact as the adorable blonde girl began speaking about robotics. he felt a gentle wave of peace emanating from her smile, and a feeling of warmth seemed to place itself on his arm. it guided his movement, it drove him forward. these types of guests were the best, but he mustn't get too far ahead of himself. these types of guests were always the type to turn on him, too.

"well, momentary shortcircut aside, what would you be interested in today, ma'm? we have an array of reds, whites, oranges, and sparkling available today and, if i may be so bold, i would recommend our newest malbec. it's only a 2024, but i feel that it will taste as good as a 2018."

his first mistake when he entered the bar for the first time was arriving early. his second wearing a suit and his third sitting at the bar. his heterosexuality was painfully obvious to all that could see from the way he was dressed, to his drink of choice, a european beer. still, this only seemed to entice the patrons more. what could this man possibly be here for, if not for a little dilly dally or experimentation? sadly for them it was quite the opposite, or perhaps sadly for alfie because the truth of the matter was even worse. he had been stood up and by his step-brother.

and after a full half an hour of waiting, he had consumed three free drinks from admirers, received a handful of numbers and invitations from men who had made it exceptionally clear how much they would like to see him again. now, whilst alfie enjoyed the attention and compliments, he was out of his depths and he considered sending francis a simple 'i'm disappointed' text to ruin his day and punish him for leaving alfie to fend for himself but decided against it. in the past few months he had been making an effort to get to know his step-brother and things happen.

after all it wasn't as if he was going to stand him up again.

so when it did happen again, alfie just sighed.

still, the quest to form a bond with his step-brother continued. the third time had to be the charm, and this time he came with reinforcements. a friend from work, to act as a buffer, a more casual and relaxed outfit with rolled up sleeves and a fruity cocktail to hand. he had blended in so much so that when francis walked in and sat down, he had walked right past him. leaving his friend, he walked up to francis moments after receiving his text, "i think you got here about ten minutes ago, actually."

alfie slid onto the bar stool with grace before waving a hand to the bartender, "i thought i'd still stick out like a sore thumb, but since you've abandoned me so many times, i guess i have acclimatised to the environment." when the bartender arrived he offered a small smile, "i'll have a whiskey sour too please." turning back to francis he looked over his step brother slowly and carefully, "so, how are you francis?"

he looked his step-brother up and down. he couldn't help it. actually, he felt a weird sense of relief at the sight. he would never admit it out loud, but alfie looked like a clown. sure, every man in francis' periphery was undressing, licking, and swallowing him with their eyes, but whole appearance, to francis, felt like if christ himself descended upon a crowd of harlots: out of place, welcome by some, distrusted by others.

for francis, the latter wrapped around his heart like a chain and pierced through an aorta.

"no, i don't think you stick out like a sore thumb," he spoke after a deep swig of his sour, "the suit is — well, i think it's definitely impressive. you're a flame, they're the moths, but i think you're more of a butterfly man, right?"

he had begun to laugh, but the laughter turned to bile in his throat. he swallowed it down swiftly — it was a welcomed punishment. he had flaked more than a freshly baked puff (would alfie have ever referred to francis as a puff? that's what they call gay men overseas, right? no, he quickly swallowed that alongside the bile. his step-brother would never). francis didn't know what else to say to that, so he didn't say anything at all. he simply watched as alfie ordered a drink, the same as him. he simply listened as alfie used words that put him even more out of his depth than he probably could ever conceive.

then, alfie broke through by asking something so mundane, so simple, so easy that, if he did not answer, francis might as well don a jester's hat and sing about the camptown races.

"oh, i'm alright. i'm as alright as someone can be when they — well, no, i'm as alright as someone can be, period. i'm fine." he stuttered. he felt his tongue swallow itself underneath the weight of his own self-loathing and, for a moment, francis considered just walking right out the door. he could embrace the polluted night air, feel the embrace of a bottle of wine at home, relish the still air of his condo be broken by the bass of his record player. he could do all of this, but, instead, he tried again:

"i'm very sorry for flaking the last two times, alfie. i don't really have any excuses. i could make them up, yes, but i don't really have the strength for that. i just... i just am sorry. i don't really know what to do in this situation, but i just don't want you to think that i'm going to continue to sit here and not apologize for having been a flake."

he took another deep sip and continued speaking before his lips even left the glass.

"i'm happy you're here, i'm happy you're here in the family, you know. i just don't particularly know how to show it," he said in a single breath before stopping and waiting. just waiting. there wasn't anything else he could do — well, actually:

"oh, and how are you?"

That’s how he found himself at the winery today. His wine rack was looking particularly empty and he wasn’t about to crack into one of his special bottles just for his evening glass. It was time for a restock.

Pablo watched as the man seemed to be acting on auto pilot in front of him. Having a profession where he too served the public on a daily basis meant he could relate to how tiring it could be. Pablo let out a little chuckle at the man’s apology. “It’s quite alright. Oh, and you don’t have to do all that. I’m just here to pick up a few bottles to take home,” he explained. As much as he would love to stick around and taste what they had to offer today he simply didn’t have the time. He had quite an elaborate dinner he had to go home and get started on soon if he wanted to eat before 9 PM.

similarly, francis almost yelped out loud and fell to his knees as he realized that he did not have to go through another tasting. yes, sometimes god was good. he was tempted to just take the backside of his hand and, in a flourish, swipe the glassware to the floor and revel in their screams as they died a miserable death. but, of course, he knew that he was being a little melodramatic. just a tad. when he got home, he anticipated a therapy session with mister mittens would be a necessity.

"ah," he sighed, "perfect."

he put away his worker's tools at once and, straightening his spine, peered at the nearby rack of "to-go orders" for the patrons that frequented regularly. he wasn't sure if this man was one of them — never admit that again, he thought, for dad will invade your thoughts and drag them from your ears like a folktale creature — but he thought he might be.

"do you have an order already waiting, sir? or, would you like a few recommendations?" he stopped and felt a brief pain in his chest at the misstep, the assumption that this man did not know what he was doing. "i mean, of course, if you do not already know exactly what you need?"

where: sunrise winery

Mateo was tasked with making his way to the winery and doing a tasting for different wines that he might think the Seascape Hotel would like to purchase to have at events or even available for room service and he was a bit excited about it, considering he'd never done anything like it. He'd been given a name of who he was meeting, so with his hand free from his cane, he quickly checked the note he'd written himself with the name Francis Belle on it just to make sure he didn't get it wrong.

The door opened and he met the other with a friendly smile as he shoved the note back into his pocket and greeted the man. "Mateo Diaz." He introduced himself as he held his hand out to shake.

he could hear the screeches, laughs, and cries from the group of women as he pulled out his pocket-square and dabbed at his forehead. they would probably take it as a challenge, would probably be back for more tomorrow. thankfully, the rest of his afternoon was booked and he could slip away and not have to worry about a dozen holes being burned into his backside by the stares of a dozen hopefuls.

the door opened, and francis swallowed his distaste and plastered on his usual smile while he ran through the list of facts. mateo diaz. manager at seascape. the hotel had been one of their prospective clients for a while now, so sealing this deal would be good for everyone involved. it probably wouldn't be a hard sell, but, as francis was wisened to, the unexpected had a funny way at sneaking behind him.

"francis belle," he intoned as he took the hand and gave it a firm squeeze. "i'm glad that you could stop by and give our wines your attention. i know this isn't usually the first thing to say in this circumstance — usually there's a little more back-and-forth that goes with it — but i'm not much of a game-player. by the end of this, i hope that we've impressed you."

he stepped to the side and motioned towards a private tasting room that he had blocked off. the frosted glass was currently aglow with the dying light of the sun and, in the moment, francis was reminded of the time he used to spend in church with his family. in a way, this winery was his own kind of church — of course, he was as much a priest as his father was the pope.

the image of his father pompously waving to a crowd of thirsty patrons with unfilled wine glasses filled his mind as he led the way toward the tasting room. he waved at lindsey and, on cue, she calmly walked over with a glass of wine.

"i believe that a tasting isn't complete without a first-taste. so, here," he grabbed the glass by its stem and gingerly held it out to mateo, "is our take on a gewurztraminer. it's crisp like an apple and simple. forward and clean."

"No, I'm wholly wallet-less on this day. I'm a right numpty at times, I'd leave my head at home by accident if it wasn't firmly attached to my neck most of the time."

( In the figurative sense, it remained there all of the time in the literal sense, unless he wasn't aware of shared traits between himself and Ichabod Crane's main nemesis. )

He turns the record in his hands towards him to show him the cover, curious about whether he would unlock any further insights given that he had correctly assumed what he was trying to buy.

"You had me pegged, though I like solo artists too. I don't like either of these two lads as solo artists thought," He says of the Gallagher brothers and the split that kept him from ever actually experiencing hearing of the songs on the album live. "Wish they'd just nut up and work it out but, families for you, aye?"

He knew well how annoying having a brother could be, Griff only had to breathe wrong at a family gathering and their mother would have to play referee between them.

"What had you thinking I don't like solo artists?" He queries then, wanting to follow the train of thought to whatever station it concluded at, tucking the record in his hands under his arm then.

"I do mean it though, if you give me your Venmo or anything in that family, I'll transfer it right back to you once I'm back on the grid. Or you can give me your number and I'll meet you somewhere and give you cash later today."

Or he could simply say fuck off, an option Reggie would accept though it wasn't one he suggested.

bile not because he didn't jive with the record — in fact, francis quite liked oasis. although, there was that period of time where he abstained from them because of that ridiculous trend people get into when they criticize that which becomes popular. he's always been a bit gullible in that way, has always needed a little sense to bring him back.

bile not because he didn't want to honor his internalized gambit — indeed, francis was a man of great superstition. although not a believe in god, he was a believer in the universe being a peeping tom. if he had made a promise, regardless of whether or not it was spoken aloud, he believed that, unless it was honored, horrible luck would come this way.

bile. because he realized that he also didn't have his wallet on him.

bile because he realized that he had recently deleted his cashapp and his venmo and his paypal and everything else money-related out of frustration because he had accidentally sent $200 to the wrong person. when he had messaged them, politely, asking for it back, they had just sent "IJBOL" — whatever that meant — with a bunch of crying-laughing emojis before blocking him.

"ha!" he all but barked as the sweat licked down his back, "yeah, I, uh — that's my issue with fleetwood mac, too. it's such a shame that the best of their music was born in times of turmoil, but, you know, i feel like that's just a metaphor for life. something, something, 'we all gotta suffer to prosper,' or whatever."

oh, he was rambling. he nervously looked around, muttered something to the effect of: 'i don't know, i just assume people nowadays prefer solo artists as they constantly plug ungrounded songs that aren't rooted in bodies of work,' and, when a bead of sweat kissed its way down his face, he realized he had had enough of this.

"do you know what? i don't have my wallet either. and i also don't have my pho— well, no, that isn't true. it's just — ah, haha, you can see that because it is right here in my hand. do you know what?"

he stepped out of line and gestured to the man to follow him. "i can get your record, too. it's all good. promise. i just, i gotta re-download my venmo. i don't wanna hold up the line, either."

as he took a step out of line, he realized that he could have stayed in line as apple pay exists. oh well, he thought as he sighed, the damage is done.

"it just feels," he began as if he hadn't completely and probably embarrassed himself, "like people don't appreciate a body of work nowadays. it feels like everyone just wants to dominate the charts and provide an instant gratification moment. i read an article the other day about a girl — goes by pinkpantheress — and she said that tracklists don't matter. i mean, what's up with that?"

could there ever really be a time when a bar was slow ?? wolfie had never actually considered it a possibility. or maybe because he'd never been behind the bar on such occasions. most often he worked the weekends, when most wanted to completely let loose. how strange it were that he had found himself behind it on a seemingly inconspicuous weekday.

" it's slow as hell, so please tell me you have something hard to make. or just down right fucking weird . " he'd take anything right about then. anything that would surely give his mind something to focus on. instead of when the damn night would be ending.

it was shortly after this mental back-and-forth conversation transpired that francis realized with twin-peak shoulders that it was hopeless. he should have just stayed within the confines of his usual haunts — which was already a generous enough conclusion as even the decaying, primordial beings that prowled the dive bars he frequented were probably conspiring to be rid of him. in fact, now that he thought about it, he had always suspected geraldine of trying to pass off those pecan sandies as "fresh and funky" when they were probably, in all actuality "fermented and funky." how one can ferment sugar, dough, and, what? more sugar? francis would never know. but, still, it was possible that she —

" it's slow as hell, so please tell me you have something hard to make. or just down right fucking weird . "

a blink, perhaps two, and francis responded to the seemingly far-off voice as clear as day:

"a peanut butter and mint screwball with a splash of cranberry," he replied in a tone so robotic that he swore he felt like his teeth were made of metal. he blinked again (perhaps twice, if not thrice) before realizing what, exactly, he had just said. a peanut butter and mint screwball with a splash of cranberry? a peanut butter and mint screwball with—

"oh, my god?" he said almost immediately after with a hint of confusion and exasperation.