"What she and I have got is a failure to communicate." The martini glass didn't respond, so I peered into it and addressed the olive that rested in a tablespoon's worth of warm gin at its bottom. "You know what I'm saying, right?"
"I'm an olive," it said. "With a skewer through me."
"And?" I shifted my eyes, once in either direction, to see if anyone at the bar had noticed that I'd been talking to my drink. Either no one had, or they weren't being obvious about noticing.
"And? And no, I don't know what you're saying," the olive said. "Until six months ago I was growing on a fifteen-hundred-year-old tree on a nice hill just outside of Marina di Ostuni with a nice view of the Adriatic."
"How was that?"
"It was nice." Apparently olives weren't blessed with an abundance of adjectives.
"Not much opportunity to form opinions about human relationships, hanging off a tree." I contemplated eating the olive, but it didn't seem appropriate to eat something that was reminiscing.
"No, not really," said the olive. "Once a boy brought a girl up the hill and tried to seduce her beneath my tree. She bit his nose. That's all I know."
"I know a few things." The martini glass spoke up. "I've been here for three years, night in, night out, men, women, getting together, breaking apart..."
"Really."
"Oh yes," the glass said. "But I wanted to give my main olive here a chance to speak up first, seeing as how he's going to get eaten soon."
"This is true," I said.
"I don't blame you," the olive said. "Picked, brined, skewered, and eaten, that's my lot."
"So what's your take?" I asked the glass. "Keen and transparent observer of human nature that you are."
"My take?" If the martini glass could've picked up its own drink, leaned back in its chair, and taken a sip, it would have. It settled for conveying that action via a well-timed pause. "My take is that when it comes to love, people usually know what they don't want with far greater clarity than what they do want."
I thought about it for a small collection of moments to see if it made any sort of immediate sense, and although it didn't, the glass had gained my full attention. "Go on."
"This is because in amore, true knowledge of what you don't want is often acquired via experience, while true knowledge of what you do want is harder to come by, and based on hypotheticals."
"You're awfully abstract for a martini glass," I said. "Explain yourself." The olive was looking tastier, but--not wanting to deny it the chance to experience some kind of Oleaic epiphany before meeting its destiny--I decided to let it hear whatever it was the glass had to say.
"Say someone's been through a real meat-grinder of a relationship. Now, that's real knowledge there, experience, see? She knows in her bones that she doesn't ever want to go through that again. It's real, it's painful, it's immediate, right?"
"Granted."
"But what she does want--say, a successful pairing, or a marriage, even--she's never had that. It's uncharted territory. Like maybe she's got a map somebody drew for her on a cocktail napkin, but she's never really been there herself. So what she doesn't want, that's real clear, in the past. What she does want, that's in a hazy and unknowable future. Theoretical."
"All right, I'm with you so far." In the kitchen, visible through an opening in the wall at the far end of the bar, something sizzling and savory erupted into a squat ball of flames on the stove. The chef lifted the pan, flipping and searing its contents until the fire expended itself. I eyed the olive again.
"So, take your woman friend," the glass continued.
"I'd like to."
"Yes, that's been obvious," said the olive. "What with the brooding about her all night and all."
"You're looking pretty tasty right now," I told it.
The martini glass ignored the exchange. "She's already got a long list of 'don't wants,' doesn't she."
"Yeah. And I'm on it."
"Of course you are. And you'll stay there as long as you're a hypothetical."
"So what's your recommendation?"
"Get real!" the olive piped up.
"The olive has it," said the martini glass.
"Bite her on the nose!" the olive went on.
"Don't do that," said the martini glass. "The olive has limited experience."
"You say the olive's right, though?" I asked.
"In its own limited way, yes. As long as you're a hypothetical, you'll never possess the reality, the immediacy, the, dare I say it! Integrity of her past knowledge. Your challenge is to move away from the translucent realm of possibility and towards her sensual now."
I was impressed. "You say you've only been a martini glass here for three years?"
"Yes," said the glass. "But before that I was sand, which used to be stones, and those were once a mountain."
"I would like to be eaten now," the olive said. I cocked an eyebrow at it. "I'm pretty sure that's what I was supposed to hear, this go 'round. So I'm ready."
I picked the skewered fruit from the glass, slid it between my teeth, crunched the green and salty pulp against my tongue. I heard a small sigh of contentment at the back of my throat, just before I swallowed. "So...any ideas about how I'm supposed to make that move?"
"That, my smitten friend, is the province of poets, not glassware."
I thought about that for another small collection of moments, then caught the attention of the bartender with a raised finger. He lifted the glass from the bar, intending to drop it in the bin with the others for washing and bring me a new one, but I stopped him with a touch on his wrist. "Same drink, same glass, please." That glass and I had more to talk about. "And two olives."
"I'm an olive," it said. "With a skewer through me."
"And?" I shifted my eyes, once in either direction, to see if anyone at the bar had noticed that I'd been talking to my drink. Either no one had, or they weren't being obvious about noticing.
"And? And no, I don't know what you're saying," the olive said. "Until six months ago I was growing on a fifteen-hundred-year-old tree on a nice hill just outside of Marina di Ostuni with a nice view of the Adriatic."
"How was that?"
"It was nice." Apparently olives weren't blessed with an abundance of adjectives.
"Not much opportunity to form opinions about human relationships, hanging off a tree." I contemplated eating the olive, but it didn't seem appropriate to eat something that was reminiscing.
"No, not really," said the olive. "Once a boy brought a girl up the hill and tried to seduce her beneath my tree. She bit his nose. That's all I know."
"I know a few things." The martini glass spoke up. "I've been here for three years, night in, night out, men, women, getting together, breaking apart..."
"Really."
"Oh yes," the glass said. "But I wanted to give my main olive here a chance to speak up first, seeing as how he's going to get eaten soon."
"This is true," I said.
"I don't blame you," the olive said. "Picked, brined, skewered, and eaten, that's my lot."
"So what's your take?" I asked the glass. "Keen and transparent observer of human nature that you are."
"My take?" If the martini glass could've picked up its own drink, leaned back in its chair, and taken a sip, it would have. It settled for conveying that action via a well-timed pause. "My take is that when it comes to love, people usually know what they don't want with far greater clarity than what they do want."
I thought about it for a small collection of moments to see if it made any sort of immediate sense, and although it didn't, the glass had gained my full attention. "Go on."
"This is because in amore, true knowledge of what you don't want is often acquired via experience, while true knowledge of what you do want is harder to come by, and based on hypotheticals."
"You're awfully abstract for a martini glass," I said. "Explain yourself." The olive was looking tastier, but--not wanting to deny it the chance to experience some kind of Oleaic epiphany before meeting its destiny--I decided to let it hear whatever it was the glass had to say.
"Say someone's been through a real meat-grinder of a relationship. Now, that's real knowledge there, experience, see? She knows in her bones that she doesn't ever want to go through that again. It's real, it's painful, it's immediate, right?"
"Granted."
"But what she does want--say, a successful pairing, or a marriage, even--she's never had that. It's uncharted territory. Like maybe she's got a map somebody drew for her on a cocktail napkin, but she's never really been there herself. So what she doesn't want, that's real clear, in the past. What she does want, that's in a hazy and unknowable future. Theoretical."
"All right, I'm with you so far." In the kitchen, visible through an opening in the wall at the far end of the bar, something sizzling and savory erupted into a squat ball of flames on the stove. The chef lifted the pan, flipping and searing its contents until the fire expended itself. I eyed the olive again.
"So, take your woman friend," the glass continued.
"I'd like to."
"Yes, that's been obvious," said the olive. "What with the brooding about her all night and all."
"You're looking pretty tasty right now," I told it.
The martini glass ignored the exchange. "She's already got a long list of 'don't wants,' doesn't she."
"Yeah. And I'm on it."
"Of course you are. And you'll stay there as long as you're a hypothetical."
"So what's your recommendation?"
"Get real!" the olive piped up.
"The olive has it," said the martini glass.
"Bite her on the nose!" the olive went on.
"Don't do that," said the martini glass. "The olive has limited experience."
"You say the olive's right, though?" I asked.
"In its own limited way, yes. As long as you're a hypothetical, you'll never possess the reality, the immediacy, the, dare I say it! Integrity of her past knowledge. Your challenge is to move away from the translucent realm of possibility and towards her sensual now."
I was impressed. "You say you've only been a martini glass here for three years?"
"Yes," said the glass. "But before that I was sand, which used to be stones, and those were once a mountain."
"I would like to be eaten now," the olive said. I cocked an eyebrow at it. "I'm pretty sure that's what I was supposed to hear, this go 'round. So I'm ready."
I picked the skewered fruit from the glass, slid it between my teeth, crunched the green and salty pulp against my tongue. I heard a small sigh of contentment at the back of my throat, just before I swallowed. "So...any ideas about how I'm supposed to make that move?"
"That, my smitten friend, is the province of poets, not glassware."
I thought about that for another small collection of moments, then caught the attention of the bartender with a raised finger. He lifted the glass from the bar, intending to drop it in the bin with the others for washing and bring me a new one, but I stopped him with a touch on his wrist. "Same drink, same glass, please." That glass and I had more to talk about. "And two olives."
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