By Christopher Watkins As if, in opposite corners, our trainers had just told us to “Go out there and get ‘em,” we square off, I on the wine side of the bar, you on the other. What, I wonder, is there in your armor in the way of a weak spot? I speak slowly, but the grim cast never leaves the set-in hardlines of your lips. I move precisely, careful not to tear the foil or break the cork or spill the wine. I marvel at your nose, how it reaches, like a hand, into the deep crimson bowl. I…