All this while my date was standing along side me and looking at my unsuccessful attempts of being able to poke, but I was hoping that she was dumb and could not put two and two together. The foreplay continued for a while when she passed a snide remark, " We should break the bottle open" she said in humor. A girl suggesting me what is to be done, what is to be done with alcohol, how I should open something, that was too much for me to take. But I had apprehensions too, how will I break it open, what if I will not be able to open it, what if there would be no wine... However, masking my apprehensions, and to display my masculinity to a hilt, I said a yes and even before she could utter another word, I was halfway down the stairs going out in the garden.
By the time I had was out, the adrenaline had gone and sanity was trying to take over me. I looked back inside the house and saw her descending down the stairs; testosterone took over from where the adrenaline had left and in a moment I was hitting the bottle on the grill. I could have burst the bottle open with a heavy blow, but as much as my testosterone wanted the bottle open, it also wanted the wine to be inside the bottle. Truly ravaged by this hormonal caution, I sat down and tried to brick it open. After a couple of tries, desperation took over caution and bham, the bottle was open. In moments I poured the wine into a pan, and thought of sifting through it for glass, but the estrogens had also started to boil and there I was striking glasses and hoping for more in the course of the night... That that wine tasted like manna, would be an understatement. I did not have a cork-screw that night, but I could screw the cork out.
PS: I got another bottle of wine a couple of days later, and again not listening to Mrs Gaur, forgot to bring a corkscrew. That bottle still sits on the table- eyeing me everyday, wanting not something to open it, but that someone to open it. Waiting for that night, when she will be back, if ever....