He liked his scotch neat. Sometimes
straight up. He would let it stay around, talking, grabbing some
munchies, gradually letting the alcohol absorb and building up for
subsequent rounds. He let the molecules play with his taste buds,
almost like a long conversation happening every time the glass left
his lips. There was some heat, yes, but this is what every other
drink could get him. He is always looking for something that can
engage him, keep him guessing. Every time the back of his throat
burns, he loves the way it almost starts a wildfire in his heart. He
himself has no idea what the next sip would bring. The first sip may
remind him of his first kiss. The one he stole sharing a piece of
chocolate with his cute crush back in grade 7. While his nose is all
absorbed in the citrus vanilla aroma, his soul is doing somersaults
in the chocolate haven mouth of his. And then it descends down the
throat and burns like a hundred suns, a million heartbreaks all at
once. "Where's the orange?", he thinks to himself 'cause
there is a subtle tangerine-ish tingle to this burning. He lets it
trickle further more, like the first set of tears when she left him;
this is one cascade he controls. Oh the taste! There's a party in his
heart and a bonfire in his mouth. His voice slurs a little saying her name, his eyes could put embers to shame. Smoke! It's finally hitting
home, he presumes. This should be the last taste it will leave him
with, the smoky sweet caramel gift to the palate, the warm fuzzy
love-like at heart.
She liked her tequila neat. Never in a
cocktail. Never staying on the table for long. If it's here, it will
be sculled down, with or without lemon slices. Food can wait. She
never had the time. She never really gave it much time or thought.
Her pointers were clear: the instant numb, the meteor-in-my-throat
burn, the vanishing memories, the light-headed happy she. Don't laugh
when she begins to define it as "evolved" instead of
"aged". The more evolved the drink, the more unevolved she
begins to act, which mostly involves translating Spanish names on the
Tequila bottles to English followed by crazy uncontrollable laughter;
"Casa Noble Añejo" is an old/mature noble house. Depth of
flavor eventually comes around. It hits you like a truck in the
middle of freeway. A few such happy accidents and she is practically
floating mid-air, refusing to be normal, rather questioning normalcy.
It was one usual day at the bar. They
stepped in to escape the rain. She was cold. He was nervous. It was
just the two of them today.
He ordered his usual. She ordered her
usual.
"Wanna try something new?",
he looked deep in her eyes and asked.
"Sure", she said, passing her
shots to him in exchange.
"Remember, this is not a shot.
Take it slow. Give it time", he smiled.
She smiled.
It's been three years and now she
understands. She didn't just switch drinks that evening. She switched
the way she loved things, people. She became what he is with his drink: patient. What was always head-first, urgent and sculled
down, with or without lemon slices, became almost like a long
conversation happening every time his eyes met hers. She now waited
to let it grow on her for she knew what followed was
a party in her heart and a bonfire in her soul. This should be the
last feeling in her heart before it stops beating, the warm fuzzy
love-like one.
© 2015 Neha Choudhry
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| Image source: Google Images |
