I drink it alone. At first, because, D. has a child in her womb, and second, because I usually would prefer drinking by myself. It rekindles the familiar aloneness. I toast to being solitary knowing that when I will wake up in bed with the family I love.
Drinking alone also means I get to read or watch my programs, instead of obliging uninteresting conversations where I end up blabbering something stupid. So I read at least two JM Coetzee short novels so far this year, and enjoyed them both in evenings with whisky.
I enjoy whisky better than wine because while they both speak the truth, whisky says so straightforwardly and powerfully. You taste the aged malt, the barley and their dozen years of imponderable waiting in oak barrels. The flavor cracks itself open against solid, clinking ice. It's an appreciation of history and craftsmanship and you feel it in your face, instantly and slightly contorting, hitting that nerve that needs hitting. Gold gushes down your throat and you exhale with effusive satisfaction, like you don't need anything else. Except maybe for a bag of savory hot peanuts.
After two or thee quick double shots, my limbs soften and my get a bit too misty for reading. The bottle plays me with its coquetry, I'm tempted to maybe have another one until I let myself be caressed into sleep. It fills the empty spot just enough, enough to make sure there'll be another one for a different night.
So before the nights become too many and too often, I decide it's time for a temporary break-up. You've flirted with me too often, and too often have I fallen. Tonight, and at least 99 other nights, I will not have any of you.
In my heart, and upon my liver, I swear we will spend these nights again.
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