The Sommelier Exam – Part 2: The Final Glass

They both passed the exam.

The results were read out in the vaulted hall on a bright June morning. Delphine's name came first. Laurent's came second. The students erupted in cheers, popping corks, spilling wine, hugging. In the noise, Delphine found Laurent's hand and squeezed it. He squeezed back.

That evening they slipped down to the cellar, alone. The old barrels slept in rows. The air was cool, rich with oak and yeast and earth. A single candle burned on a barrel-head, throwing gold on the stones.

Laurent held up a dusty bottle. "I found this in the back."

"We cannot open that."

"It is a 1996 Chambolle-Musigny."

"We cannot possibly."

"I know."

He opened it. The cork came out with a soft sigh. He poured two glasses, and they stood in the candlelight, swirling, breathing. The wine was pale ruby, shimmering. Its scent rose up, roses and cherries and wet leaves.

"Taste," whispered Delphine.

They tasted. It was silk. It was memory. It was the sound of a long summer afternoon, crystalline and sad. Both of them closed their eyes. When they opened them, both were wet.

"Nineteen ninety-six," said Delphine.

"Chambolle-Musigny."

"We both got it right."

"We did."

"Can I ask you something?" said Laurent.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you? It seems fitting."

"Yes," said Delphine, with a shaky laugh. "And if you say stop, you must taste blind with me for the rest of your life."

"That is a very good punishment."

He kissed her, slow and warm, a hand rising to her dark curls. She kissed him back, tasting of cherries and oak, her fingers curling in his cashmere. The candle flickered. The cellar was perfectly silent but for the slow, deep breathing of a hundred barrels.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Delphine. "Very green."

They opened a wine bar in Beaune. The list is written in two hands. The house white is called Blind.

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