I rarely spend more on a drink than I do on an entree, but the moment got the better of me. And context is everything. I’d rather have the time and place to enjoy a beautiful scotch amongst music and art and legitimate women, when for the same money be pressured to buy another watered-down cola at a strip club or be similarly victimized by the passionless allure of Vegas, where the currency of bottles leaves the evening so desperately and equally empty.

Here there’s no contrivance, no conspiracy of regret, as I raise a bell glass of single malt. My eyes taste it first and the fumes make me blink hard, opening my eyes through a Highlands fog that’s traveled all this way to find me.

It takes two sips to adjust. A soda back to process. I don’t see how I’d finish but I can’t see how I’d stop. Conversation continues, eases. The warmth comes over, like a sailor’s wool sweater cable-knit from within.

This is the good stuff. The last drop now smooth like cream. I could have this anytime, I think. I could keep a bottle at home. Think of the money I’d save. Think of the nights I’d never have to leave you.

Categories: Personal, Sent Remotely, Writerly
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