It all feels different now. I see the ice cubes loosing their advanced position on the battle for the right to remain solid against my amber brown liquid as I rest the glass on the well worn-out wooden surface of the bar. Savouring how that sip had reached its perfection reminds me that “I thrive best on hermit style with a beard and a pipe and a parrot on the side”, said by someone else, and shared, for us either to embrace or to relate. I relate. My tongue feels the thrilling sensory parade this liquid has left behind. Peaty, hopy, malty… never been good at this kind of description, probably due to the lack of poetry behind. Life is poetry. Love is poetry. Stories captured for eternity, in songs and the like, loyal soundtrack to the crusade of eager cell troops towards molecular perpetuation, while we stand hopeless to their mercy, waiting for the so promised calm after the storm. It all feels different now. I can feel myself think over this Janis Joplin heart of mine, I guess, now, only my hair is that wild. I notice the seasons cycle, wind, rain, snow, the grey dark blue grow green aquamarine on the sea while I swim. The higher presence of water enhances other flavoured virtues in my glass. No night feels lonely as long as I can write. The candle’s flickering flame impregnates the walls of this bright enough venue with dancing shades of all of us, blue birds, participating in this scene. A proud feeling comes over me as I realise how I’ve managed to take the last sip in the glass before it got spoiled. Drinking, like living, is an art. My empty vase is acknowledged by the skilled bartender and I read the natural suggestion through the spark in her eyes and the lifting of her brows. I’ll take a Manhattan, dry.
Ice cubes in my glass. Short-story from ’12 o’clock-tales’ (The red table & A scared black cat)