It’s few and far between that any wine leaves a bad taste in my mouth, especially when it’s something as delicious as this Can Feixes, from Spain. But when you get, you know, scorned or something by no less than *ahem* a priest, well, bad taste is all you have left. (Disclaimer: he was Episcopalian and in seminary, but still, how funny is it to call him a priest? Pretty damn funny, so just go with it.)

Basically, I met a dude on the Internet. You know, the same old story: boy gets lonely, boy goes online, boy messages other boy-who-would-be-priest, boy-who-would-be-priest says “sure, let’s go out.”

And lo and behold, we had a great first date! Neither of us was creepy (apparently. At least, he wasn’t; can’t say much for myself), there were no majorly awkward silences and if I can be so bold, conversation was stellar. Hell, we even shared some key lime pie. Key lime fucking pie. Call Nora Ephron now, damn it!

For our second date, we cooked dinner together. Earlier in the week, I suggested salmon with persimmons. Pretty classic and not so complicated I wouldn’t impress a boy. In the Priest’s kitchen, in vest, tie and oxfords, I wrestled with a sharp chef’s knife to separate the skin from the fatty pink flesh of the salmon steak. After roasting the fruit, I prepped an orange beurre blanc from scratch; at this point, I’m pretty sure I looked hot as fuck (in my eyes, at least). He prepared quinoa and a bacon-fig salad.

How was the wine? Pretty damn good, from what I remember. A dry white, its acidity balanced the fattiness of the salmon and beurre blanc. It was zesty, tasting of lemon and finishing with bright minerality. But let’s be honest: I wasn’t thinking about the nuance of vino at that point. I just wanted to touch mouths.

Dessert was an upside-down cherry cake, which we devoured in short order. We retired to the couch where we chatted a bit before we made our moves. His kiss was soft, like a ripe pear. His upper lip tasted of the Can Feixes. What were our arms doing? How did our hands get there?

Fast forward, oh, half an hour. Business concluded (we both stayed due North; get those salacious thoughts out of your head), shit got awkward.

“Man, I’m sleepy.”

“Blunt question: Would you like me to leave?”

“No, it’s ok.”

The roommate comes home. There is banging around and singing. Dishes are being washed. “I should make sure she doesn’t clean ours.” He gets dressed.  Twenty minutes pass; I stay in my underwear. I look at his bookshelf to while the time. My mind wanders to the other bottle of wine I brought, an Italian Basilicata. When he returns, he doesn’t undress, but looks at me. The onset of small talk is sudden; where did this come from?

“I should get going.”

“You sure? Ok.”

I dressed and he walked me out the building, taking out the kitchen trash in the process. If I was one to overanalyze, that could probably be a big fucking metaphor. I asked if he was free for coffee later in the week.

“Probably. Text me?”

“Sure.” We kissed and hugged.

I get home. I text. “Had a good time tonight. Hope to see you soon.” Hours later, and still no response.

I was used by a priest. To make matters worse, I left that other bottle there. Bad taste in my mouth, indeed.