Fareeha isn’t sure what possessed Angela to take her wine tasting, of all things, for their third date. She prides herself on being a beer and arak drinker only, partaking in alcohol rarely, and on special occasions. Like dates, she supposes, her fingers curling awkwardly around the stem of her wine glass.
Angela seems to be enjoying herself, however. Her eyes are bright and excited, lips curling around the lip of her glass. Fareeha watches her, still not quite sure how she managed to snag any of the doctor’s precious time. It’s all very… intense.
Really, Fareeha is content to follow Angela around, trying wines and watching the way her face lights up as she explains certain vintages; their origins or the reasons for their different tastes.
That is, until someone bumps her out of the way to address Angela.
“Doctor Zeigler! Fancy finding you here?”
Angela nearly spills her drink, stumbling slightly as the man takes hold of her arm. Fareeha watches on, frowning slightly, waiting for the right moment to strike. Angela spares her a momentary glance and the slightest twitch of her lip. Just wait, she seems to say.
“Andrew. How are you?”
Andrew prattles on about absolutely nothing. Fareeha slips around him to wrap her arm around Angela’s waist, restraining the urge to tear Andrew’s hand off her shoulder, not liking the way his pale fingers dig into her skin. He doesn’t seem to notice, his nazily voice lifting higher as he takes a deep sniff of his wine.
“Mm. Yes. You can almost taste the burgundy oak it was stored in.” He takes a sip, and makes the most over exaggerated noise Fareeha has ever heard. “Exquisite. You can feel the aged oak, really. You can. It is akin to walking upon a beach in the midnoon sun. Don’t you agree?”
If I have to listen to any more bullshit I’m going to shove this wine glass up Andrew’s ass. Fareeha takes a sip of her own wine. She can’t taste any oak. And she certainly doesn’t feel like she’s walking across any beach, but before she can stop herself, she’s speaking anyway.
Andrew looks at her down his nose, quirking one eyebrow. Angela’s body tenses against her, but she ignores this, instead sniffing the wine with the same delicate grace Andrew had shown.
“It quite clearly hasn’t aged well,” she says stiffly. “Can’t you detect the slightest hint of acid? This wine isn’t smooth at all.”
To her amusement, Andrew takes a hurried sip. His brows contract, and he hums his agreement.
“You are quite right.” He eyes her haughtily as though inspecting something nasty on the bottom of his shoe. “And you are?”
“Fareeha Amari. Angela’s girlfriend.”
Fareeha watches with amusement at the way he does a double take. She tightens her grip on Angela’s hip, daring him to say anything, waiting for the usual flicker of disapproval, and the curl of a lip. It doesn’t surprise her when he does just that. He straightens slightly, his eyebrow hitching higher up his face.
“Well. I didn’t quite expect that from you, Doctor Zeigler.” He swirls his wine.