Vinegar In Place of Wine

Vinegar In Place of Wine.

    Two men sit near a warm fire in an otherwise cold room. Flickering fingers of light throw themselves past the men, dying quick deaths to the large shadows that fill the room. The younger of the two is perched on a granite slab jutting out from around the fireplace with a look of obvious impatience on his face. The elder is sitting in a leather chair, frayed around the edges of the arm rests; the chair, seemingly just as old as the man who sits in it.
    “No, no, no! You're not listening to me!” the older man exclaims. The younger rolls his eyes, understanding that the conversation is going nowhere. “Uncle Maxwell! I understand you'd never go through with this when you were my age, I fully understand that. But things have changed since you were a young buck,” the younger tries to explain. “That they have, Douglas. Much more than you could possibly imagine,” Maxwell admits, his voice tinged with the curious effect regret has on language. It is soft and distant, perhaps even considered rude to some. It adds moments of inflection, and coats itself in cryptic mumbles. It latches onto forlorn expressions, and finds a way to frustrate any soul that isn't currently speaking the same language.
    “Let me stop you at the door before you try to take a trip down memory lane. If I stay in town, and land this deal, I'll become a partner for sure. This is something Melissa and I both want. So honestly, who cares if we just have a quick elopement? Quick and easy, so we can get back to our busy lives,” Douglas says, starting to sound irritated. His dry tone, and jaw held slightly tilted up condescendingly, suggesting that he is repeating himself.
    “Despite what you may think, boy, I've heard you all five times. It is you who isn't hearing me. Some regrets never go away, and if people judged you for what you lacked, instead of what you have, I'd be a laughing stock. I don’t want to see you amass that sort of fortune,” Maxwell snaps. Douglas' eyebrows climb his face, and he starts to softly laugh as he looks around the room. He looks like the first man in a room full of people to understand a joke. “Uncle, your silly hypothetical means nothing in real life. You're extremely powerful, and have accomplished so much. There is nothing you can't have, and yet you mention lacking? There is nothing you lack that you couldn't easily acquire,” Douglas spoke, the dim outline of a temper starting to peek through.
    “No, my boy, I can have all the materials that I want. That's like having a body without a soul. Wonderful family gatherings, one filled with accidental traditions that grow new additions with each and every year that passes. Sitting around a bonfire with close friends, talking of great hopes and dreams, and saying all of the things we plan to do, even if somewhere deep down we know it may never happen. The smile of a newborn baby; one that has my eyes and nose, but that smile, no, that smile has to come from his beautiful mother. No Dougie, when you get a little older, you'll see just how poor I really am.”
    “Alright then,” Douglas barks, slamming the flat of his hand onto the granite ledge. “Fine, have it your way. Is that it though? Embarrassing family, loud friends, and horrid babies? Anything else I seemingly can't live without, uncle? Any other average aspirations I've seemed to have passed by already in my short life?” Douglas asks. “The most important of them all, Doug,” Maxwell muses. Dropping his head into his hands, Douglas runs a hand through his hair, and sighs. “What, exactly, is the most important thing of all, uncle,” Douglas asks, his patience hanging on by the tips of its fingers. “Young love,” Maxwell whispers. Douglas moves his mouth, but words can't seem to form.
    His eyes dart back and forth as though looking for support from some phantom audience. “You must be joking,” Douglas finally manages to spit out. “Hello? I'm getting married any day now. In fact, the entire reason I've wasted my day off here was so you could talk to me specifically about that marriage. I'm only 23, and engaged. What part of young love am I missing, Uncle? Or... is this senility finally slipping through?” Maxwell drops his brows, and looks Douglas directly in the eyes, ignoring the scathing comment of his mental state. “Alright, nephew. Alright. I'm sorry to have upset you, but tell me, when was the last time you told each other that you truly loved one another,” Maxwell asks. “Every night at 8 o clock, just before bed. The same as any other night,” Douglas snaps.
    Maxwell let a small frown appear, and reaches his hands out meekly to rest on Douglas' shoulders. “Love shouldn't be a part of a set schedule for you two. Not for many years yet, my boy,” Maxwell states. Shifting to remove Maxwell's hands, Douglas grits his teeth together and stares at his uncle defiantly. “Well what the hell would you know, uncle? Have you ever wondered if you only idolize these things because you never had them? Hmm? Like a child whose friend has a shiny new toy, and he gets his first taste of envy looking at it?” Douglas sneers. “What do you know?”
    The deep grey eyes of Maxwell peer up at Douglas, regret starting to flood back into his voice. “I know that for many years now, my looking for young love was like drinking vinegar in place of wine and I know that to this day, I still drink every last hopeful drop,” Maxwell laments, the years starting to show on his face.
    After several minutes of frowning at the floor, Douglas stands up, and storms across the room. Stopping in the doorway, he cranes his neck to look over his shoulders, and stares down at Maxwell. Euphemistic blood ran cold from the daggers he was staring. The light from the hallway was tracing his body, making his face appear dark. “You disappoint me, uncle. You're every bit the fool mother says,” and with that, walks away. “Not nearly as much as you'll come to disappoint yourself,” Maxwell mutters to nobody in particular. The sound of a vehicle is heard starting up, and the squeal of Douglas' tires shrink and eventually fade into the distance. “You're right about the fool part, I suppose. I think I just told a grand joke tonight,” Maxwell says. “I hope you never have to laugh at it.”

Maxwell's hands start to shiver, but he doesn't hold them to the fire. He doesn't feel the chill in his body. He stares into the flames for a long while, not really feeling anything at all.