The Art of Screwing

Summary

A young person, likely on a date, struggles comically to open a wine bottle with a wine worm, ultimately succeeding and hoping for approval from their companion.

Abstract

The narrative "The Art of Screwing" by Libby Mitchell is a comedic take on the relatable challenge of opening a wine bottle. It captures the tension and anticipation of a young individual attempting to impress their date by uncorking a bottle with a wine worm. Despite the struggle, involving sweat and a near mishap with a white linen suit, the protagonist manages to open the bottle, albeit with a minor spill. The story concludes with a moment of suspense as the date reacts to the wine, initially coughing and then questioning the presence of a fly, leaving the protagonist hopeful yet uncertain of their success.

Opinions

The protagonist is determined to succeed in opening the wine bottle to maintain the romantic atmosphere.
The struggle with the wine bottle is depicted with humor and relatability, highlighting the commonality of such awkward moments in young adulthood.
The protagonist's pride in their purchase and effort is palpable, as is their anxiety about the date's reaction to both the wine and their performance.
The date's reaction to the wine, with a cough and a question about a fly, introduces a humorous twist, suggesting that the wine might not be as impressive as the protagonist hoped.
The hovering parents add an additional layer of pressure and desire for the protagonist to perform well in this rite of passage.

The Art of Screwing

By Libby Mitchell

For NYC Midnight MicroFiction Challenge

Comedy, opening up a wine bottle, word magic

Magic in the unopened bottle. The look on her face. She beams, braces glinting in the candlelight. Failure is not an option. Pimply faced or not, you have this. Don’t blow it. Show her the label and what ten dollars of lawn mowing money can buy.

Anticipation. You place the end of the worm against the cork. Push hard. Turn it. That’s right. Just like your dad showed you. The tip pierces the oak covering. Squeak. Squeal. Twist and turn. Keep it up. Put the little boot lever against the lip of the bottle. Now slowly pull up. Harder. Come on, damn it.

Sweat pops out on the peach fuzz of your lip. Her smile falters as you struggle with the bottle. Sitting down and placing it between your legs while you struggle seems to help. Finally, a release and comes off, only a little dripping onto your white, too large, linen suit.

You wipe the perspiration from your face and pour the red luscious liquid. First, hers, then yours. A dribble on the creamy tablecloth and you notice your parents hovering by the French doors. Your chest balloons out two breaths as you sit down, hoping she likes it.

You smile at her as she holds the glass under her nose and breathes deeply in. And coughs. She takes a sip, smiles politely. A home run, you think. Her eyes cross as she looks into her glass. “Is that a fly?”