“Scotch is an old man’s drink, and I’ll take mine with water.” Willow’s voice floats from the CD player.
“I think I will do the same.” I say to myself as much as to the stereo, settling in to my burgundy leather recliner. I used to drink without a chaser, without a mixer, without dilution. Tonight though, I protect my mouth from the full flavor of the drink. The water serving as a level of insulation from something too potent for me to attempt neat. Every drink has been too potent lately.
Thoughts scamper across my mind, and I watch them. Not really discerning one from the next unless they collide. Even then, it is only to see if they merge into one, explode into shards, or simply disintegrate. One thought hovers on the edge, hiding in the shadows. For the first time, I invite it to the foreground and admit it to myself - she is not returning. It’s as though the proverbial light bulb has come on inside my head and the roaches, my inconsequential thoughts, scatter.
I shut my eyes tight against direct light of this epiphany but it still hurts. Opening my eyes slowly, I find I am staring at a small, framed bible quote my mother made for me when I first moved out. “My cup runneth over…” is printed in calligraphy above a rather busty woman.
I look at my cup, and am disgusted by the diluted contents. I empty my cup down the sink and pour the last of the bottle in at full strength. The first sip burns my throat, now unused to the harsh reality of a drink not softened by the rocks.
I realize the song I have been listening to is ending, just in time to hear, “Water’s a lonely drink and so, I’ll just take scotch.”
~Asherah
posted @ 10:39 AM
