The taste of straight vodka….sweet initially, then the burn, then warmness. Repeat.
Sitting here feeling old and way too sober, I think about grandchildren.
Not as if any of my boys are making any, or that they would even let a drunk watch after them. But my immortal soul longs for continuity.
Getting up I feel my vision closing down, my ears start to ring that familiar tune.
It passes and then I can walk to the kitchen where the frozen bottle lives in my fridge
The formula, fueled by muscle memory. My hands and feet know the drill. Dump the used ice, grab five cubes from the freezer, place in tumbler, pull bottle from the bottom shelf, fill past the top of the ice. The frozen vodka pours ever so slow, careful that your drunken hand doesn’t give out, my body rebels as my subconscious mind is subverted by my higher level thought, my hand grips harder, the bottle almost slipping from my grasp. Muscle memory is lost as I clumsily replace the silver cap, carefully screwing it tight, then just as carefully putting it back on the bottom shelf of the freezer, bumping the sides as my aim is not so true.
I wobble to bed only spilling a few ounces.
©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2013, written entirely on my iPhone